


The Inevitable 50 Shades Rewrite

by Not_You



Category: 50 Shades of Grey - E. L. James, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 50 Shades Of Grey, Anal Fingering, Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Belts, Breast Fucking, Comeplay, Coming In Pants, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dom Clint Barton, Dominant Bottom, Drunkenness, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Frottage, Gay Bashing, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, I REGRET NOTHING, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kink Negotiation, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Middle Aged Virgins, Nipple Play, Not Beta Read, Painplay, Parent-Child Relationship, Phil didn't know he was gay until pretty recently, Sexual Fantasy, Silly, Spanking, Subspace, Verbal Bondage, Wet Dream, Whipping, ask me why i'm not working on my other fics, clint barton plays piano, don't worry phil beats everyone up, he is a drunken master, or my goddamn novel, sort of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 32,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Clint gets to be the dom in this pairing for once, and I take on the writing challenge of taking the basic skeleton of Christian Grey's actions and making them not creepy and abusive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Interview

Being called into the editor's office doesn't make Phil nervous. He has known Nick for years, and they work very well together. The nerves start when he hears his assignment. Really it's Bobbi's assignment, and Phil actually resents her a little for dumping it on him, even if the poor girl does have the flu. He reminds himself to be reasonable, and is left poring over someone else's incomprehensible notes with one day to prepare for a particularly important interview.

Everyone has their own methods, but Bobbi's shorthand is inscrutable, and there's lots of scribbling and arrows and even the typed stuff is totally disjointed, so Phil has to go with shit from TMZ and a piece in Forbes and pray for luck. Phil has won awards for his interviews, but he did his own legwork for those. He had time. And he was still in blissful denial and wasn't living the truth of there being no fool like an old fool. He runs a nervous hand over his receding hairline in a way that he hasn't for a long time, and then sternly tells himself not to be stupid. 

All he has to do is go and ask Clint Barton some basic human-interest questions. Hawkeye Inc. and its proprietor have both sort of of shot up out of nowhere, and so far most personal questions have been answered with 'no comment,' a question of his own, or just a blinding smile. He really is gorgeous, and Phil forces himself to own and examine that fact as one of the things making him nervous before he finally looks at Bobbi's list of questions. It's fairly generic, and Phil isn't sure if he's more offended or amused to see FIND OUT IF HE'S GAY scrawled into a margin and underlined four times.

One consolation of the whole thing is that when comes back to the office in the morning, Nick gives him the keys to his own, much nicer, car. “Take care of her,” he says, and walks away, leaving Phil to make the one-hour drive in style. He relaxes into the genuine leather interior, shielded from the world by tinted windows, and drives. He stops once on the way, to top off the tank as a friendly gesture, and arrives at Barton's office a few minutes early.

 _Well, Bobbi,_ he thinks as a stunning blonde receptionist greets him, _he's probably not gay._ She's only the first of three, of course, and the other two are, if anything, even lovelier, particularly the redhead who leads him to the inner sanctum. She opens the door for him and he just has time to see that the room is smaller than he would have expected and that Barton has gotten to his feet and come around the big desk toward him before he manages to trip on the edge of the carpet and almost faceplant, his briefcase flying off to the left so he can save himself. He ends up on his hands and knees and fretting about his trousers instead of on his face and fretting about his dental work, so he'll have to call it a draw rather than a dead loss. Clint Barton is wearing steel-toe, curb-stomp boots in this upscale office, and Phil feels kind of helplessly charmed by that.

“Nice one,” he says, offering Phil a hand up. His eyes are bright blue, and his dark blonde hair is a mess. Phil takes his hand, surprised to feel so many calluses on it and more flustered than ever by the strength of that grip. “You okay?” Barton asks, and he still hasn't let go and Phil is wondering if this will be what finally kills him. “Thanks, Tasha,” he adds to the receptionist, who has retrieved Phil's bag for him. “Hey, you want coffee or water?” he says to Phil, finally letting go of his hand.

“Coffee, please,” Phil says, and obeys Barton's direction to an attached bathroom to 'freshen up,' a phrase that seems kind of adorable and quaint coming out of his mouth and Phil really needs to get a grip on this. First he washes his hands, straightens his tie and what's left of his hair, and then opens the cabinet over the sink. His nosiness is rewarded with detergent wipes, a tube of heating gel, and a small bottle of cheap gin with an, 'In Case of Emergency: DRINK' sticker on it. He uses the wipes on the knees of his trousers and picks up his briefcase, returning to the office.

Barton is sitting at his desk again, two steaming cups of coffee resting on the vast, polished surface, guest chair pulled out invitingly. Phil sinks into it, and smiles. “Thank you,” he says. The cups are some kind of simple white pottery, without handles, and of course the cream and sugar containers match. Phil takes his coffee black, but Barton loads his up like kids do when they first try it. Just another thing about the guy that's way too cute.

“You're welcome,” Barton says, stirring his drink. “You are Phil Coulson, right? Bobbi Morse's replacement?”

“I am,” Phil says, “and I'm usually not that clumsy.”

Clint waves a hand, his smile warm and accepting. “I know all about fucking up more when people are watching. You gonna record this?”

“It is how I prefer to work,” Phil says, setting the little recorder onto the desk between them. Barton grins at him as he switches it on. “All right, Mr. Barton, first question: why am I here? You've deflected other attempts to ask you about yourself.”

“Call me Clint. And I've realized that I've gotta give people something, and the Shield is a pretty good paper. I can't promise I'll answer everything, but go ahead. Ask me.”

'Well,” Phil says, cradling his cup in his hands, “there are the basics. What is the secret of your success, where did you grow up, and what do you do on your time off?”

Clint shrugs. “Getting adopted by rich people was a big help.”

“You were in the Waverly Children's Home for a while, right?”

“Right. It wasn't so bad. Clean, plenty to eat, staff that at least kinda cared. I don't really want to get much more into this, but yeah, that's how I ended up with my parents, who were able to kick some cash my way and help me hand-pick a really good team. I also got a couple lucky breaks, I put in some thirty-six hour days early on, and I actually reward good work and don't let the loudest guy in the room steal all the credit.”

Phil smiles. “That last is more important than most people know.”

“Yeah, it's fucking ridiculous. Which one am I on now? Hobbies? Urgh, there's some fluff here, and I really hope I can trust you not to get glurgey about it.”

“I solemnly swear that I shall not write anything sappy, maudlin, or nauseating about your leisure activities, up to and including scrubbing oil off of marine wildlife,” Phil says, and Clint laughs.

“Nah, I just donate to that. Everybody already knows I'm into archery, but I also teach what people call 'disadvantaged' kids to shoot, if they want to learn. Three two-week classes at Camp Nowhere every summer.”

Phil smiles. “Sounds like a good use of your time.”

Clint takes a long sip of his coffee. “Besides all the warm and fuzzy feelings, it's easy to do archery lessons at cost, since we make all the gear.”

Phil asks him a bit more about the camp and his corporate philosophy, trying not to ogle him too much. There aren't that many photographs, and no still image could capture the way Clint's expressions change his face. Phil could look at him all day, and tries not to give into temptation to actually do it as he talks about his HR policies. He talks about his employees in a weirdly proprietary way. 

There's something almost feudal about it, and Phil says, “Would you call your management model a possessive one?” amused at the bashful look Clint gives him.

“Maybe a bit? More like I'm not too dumb to want to retain good employees, and well... I wanna _deserve_ to retain them."

“You've already got better parental leave packages than most companies.”

“I'm just pissed it's not standard. So, did you volunteer for this or did they just land it on you?”

Phil has been waiting for him to turn it like this, but that's a fairly harmless question. “The latter, but you've been more cooperative than I was expecting.” Clint grins.

“Glad to be able to help.”

Tasha pokes her head into the office. “Your meeting is in ten minutes, boss.”

“Shit, already? We're gonna finish up here, put out some donuts so they don't eat each other.” She salutes and vanishes again, and he looks to Phil. “Okay, we've got a couple minutes, and I want to know a couple things about you.”

“You do?”

“Favorite books?” Clint is all but batting his eyes at him now, and Phil wonders if he's being cruised and then feels his face go hot because it's so unlikely to be true.

“Classics and trash,” he says more sharply than he means to, “no middle ground.”

“Paperback romances?” Clint asks, amused.

“Sometimes,” Phil admits, and then stands. “I won't keep you from anything.”

“No,” Clint says wryly, getting up and walking him to the door, “you won't. Call me if you didn't get everything you need. I can give you the whole tour sometime if you need a puff piece.” He shakes Phil's hand at the door, lingering a bit and looking into his eyes like he's trying to find something. Phil just gives him his best poker face and withdraws with murmured thanks, unsure just what the hell is going on here.


	2. Coffee And A Brush With Involuntary Vehicular Manslaughter

Phil gets Nick's beast back safe and sound, handing over the keys with a touch of regret. In his own little car he picks up some excellent chicken and leek soup on the way to Bobbi's place. This was her piece first, and she deserves a look at what he's got even if she's too sick to make deadline and it ends up being his baby after all.

“Come ye into this house of the plague!” she croaks, buzzing him up to her apartment. She's very glad to see the soup, and thanks Phil profusely for it and for, “not fucking up my interview, I was so scared Fury would dump it on some idiot.”

“Fury doesn't keep idiots,” Phil says, setting his bag down and taking the soup into the kitchen to heat it up and dump it into real bowls, a huge one for her and a small one for himself. He takes it back out to living room, where she is camped on her couch in a mound of tissues and misery, and plays the audio recording for her as she eats.

“Shit, he sounds almost like the real thing,” she says, pausing to blow her nose and make a miserable little noise as it apparently makes her head hurt. “And that stuff about the camp is cute, so good find there.”

“He doesn't wear dress shoes,” Phil says.

“Sneakers?”

“Combat boots. And a purple tie that really brought out his eyes.”

Bobbi snorts. “I can't believe you didn't know you were gay.”

“I thought I just had a really low sex drive! It's not like being with a woman is the 'red ants eat your eyelids off' torture.”

“What about now, is he as cute as the photos we don't have?”

“...Cuter,” Phil mumbles, and Bobbi cackles and then coughs and groans.

“You're lucky I feel too crappy to really get on you about this.”

“I'll pencil it in for when you're feeling better,” Phil says, and she snorts.

“Go back, we missed the bit about manufacturing.”

Phil goes back, and they pretend to be professionals for another twenty minutes or so before Phil declares them done. Bobbi would stay up all night to work on it if he stuck around, and she's sick enough already. She grumbles, but lets him go.

Over the next few days they volley emails back and forth and Phil is dumb enough to let Clint's offer of a tour slip. This is a mortal error, and Bobbi teases him about it so much that when Phil comes wandering into the break room to find Clint dubiously eying the non-dairy creamer he has a crazy moment of thinking that she somehow put him up to it. Clint grins at him, as bright and as genuine as sunrise.

“Hey, Phil! I was here talking to your ad people.” He's in the same boots today, but has traded the suit for black slacks and a t-shirt under a blazer.

“Oh?” There's no real reason to hang back, so Phil steps up beside him to pour his own cup of coffee.

“Yeah, there were some price changes and miscommunications and so now I'm here, wondering how you people get by on this stuff.”

“That's what you get for not taking it black,” Phil says, leaning on the counter and taking a sip of the searing and bitter brew.

“Maybe so,” Clint says, studying him for a moment of comfortable silence. “You have enough time to go get real coffee?”

Phil frantically tries to figure out if this is a proposition or a friendly overture and bitterly wishes he was actually straight. He had been so good at it, and he's so bad at this. In the space of a second he decides that he'd take Clint up on either, though, and shrugs. “Why not?” Really, this coffee is old, anyway. Phil pours the whole thing out and starts a new pot before walking out with Clint. It's a surreal moment, and he's really, really glad that Bobbi is still off sick and isn't here to see this. Her reaction to any secondhand information will be quite bad enough.

There's a nice little local coffee shop just a couple of blocks down the street, and Clint seems happy enough to let Phil lead the way. It's a warm day and he hangs the blazer over his shoulder. This action reveals that the t-shirt is sleeveless and causes Phil to nearly swallow his own tongue in the middle of an innocent question about how he spent the weekend.

“Pretty dull, this time,” he says. “Had to go to one of my mom's parties and be nice to hangers-on and friends of friends of friends.”

“Were you ever able to escape to the Bat Cave?” Phil asks, and Clint laughs.

“Nah. Had to let Gotham burn to the fucking ground, you know how it is.”

Out of pure habit Phil holds the door for him when they reach their destination, and Clint hesitates for half a second and then gives him that same, sunny smile, leading the way inside. He looks around appreciatively at the fantastical wall art and the various miniature fountains, some with floating bells, and then walks up to examine the board as Phil steps up to order the espresso that would keep him coming here even if he didn't like the ambiance.

“I'll get that,” Clint says when Phil is about to pay, and Phil takes his drink and steps aside so Clint can make his complicated and sugary order and then ask if they do suspended coffees, which they do. He buys ten of them, and talks about how much he likes the idea as they wait for Phil's espresso and Clint's confection. Whatever it is it has whipped cream on top, and the way Clint licks at it should be illegal.

“Is it real?” Phil asks him.

“Really real,” Clint purrs, sitting back and wiping some white off of his lower lip, sucking it off the tip of his thumb in a way that should _also_ be illegal. “I think I like this place.”

“Glad to help,” Phil says, and he can feel himself blushing, which is so idiotic at his age.

“You're so self-contained,” Clint says fondly, “except for when you blush.” His eyes sparkle as he sips his drink. “I wish I knew what you were thinking when that happens.”

Phil has never been so grateful for a text message alert. “Excuse me,” he says, and then has to bite back a groan, because it's from Bobbi, telling him that they need some decent photos of Clint, that she is _not_ going to use some crap from the Grammys last year. “Well then,” Phil says, and looks up again. “So that was Bobbi and she wants photos. Are you up to it?”

Clint smiles. “For you? Anything,” he says, and pulls out a business card, writing a number on the back. “That's my cell,” he says, sliding it across the table. “It'll be easier for you to reach me. Try me before ten am., if you can.”

Phil takes it and thanks him. The maximum time he allows himself for a coffee break is nearly up, anyway. Clint smiles when he tells him so, and walks him back to the office. It's starting to seem like Phil really _is_ being hit on, and he's not sure what to do with that. And still not sure. Clint is so much younger and better-looking, and aren't gay men supposed to work on a leaguing system? He's pondering these questions when a flash of chrome has him reacting almost before he has finished noticing it. A car lurches up on to the sidewalk and Phil slams Clint back against the wall, flattening their bodies together as the car lurches back down again.

“Nice one,” Clint says, breathless. The drunk or in the middle of a myocardial infarction driver has managed to come to a stop, and a woman nearby is already calling the police. 

“I used to be a cop,” Phil says. He feels like his knees won't support him if he tries to stand up properly, but Clint seems to have no objection to being leaned on. 

“Fuck the coffee, _now_ I'm awake. You gonna be okay?”

“Probably,” Phil says, even if his heart is still trying to bang its way out of his ribcage.

“How in the hell did you manage to be so clumsy in my office?”

“Pure luck,” Phil says, and stands up, running a shaky hand through his hair.

They have to stay and give statements, and the driver turns out to be a drunk and Phil does his best not to murder the guy with his bare hands. When he has a minute to look at Clint again, he realizes that he feels the same. If anything, he's even angrier. He's silent and pale as they walk back, and when they part ways in the parking lot he looks like he wants to say something, but in the end turns away without a word.


	3. The Photo Session

Bobbi is, of course, insufferable when Phil tells her about what she insists on labeling as his date with Clint.

“It was _not_ a date,” Phil says, for what must be the tenth time.

“It was such a date,” Bobbi says, and Phil groans. He can't really get away from her, either, with his feet in a tub of water. He's joining her in a celebratory pedicure now that she's done being wracked with physical misery. It's part of his ongoing program to reap the benefits of being gay. He's in the middle of a conscious program to not resist any girly thing that's actually pleasant. He's not going to start waxing or anything, that sounds like some kind of torture method, but who doesn't appreciate a foot rub? Their pedicurists come back to dry their feet, and Phil sighs as Bobbi goes on, “He invited you out, bought you coffee, and then you saved his life on the way back.”

“Saved him a hospital stay, maybe,” Phil says. “It wasn't going that fast.”

“Such. A. Date.”

“I have to say,” the girl working on Phil's feet says, “that does sound like a date. Are you getting mixed signals or something? Oh, and do you want a scented oil, or not?” 

They both opt for the lavender, and as the girl works it in, Phil sighs. “It's hard for me to know what signals I may or may not be getting,” he says, flexing his toes in her grasp, “since I didn't have the sense to see I was gay twenty years ago.”

“Pfft, you're not dead yet. And I think those signals are pretty clear.”

“He went away mad, but that was at nearly being run over by a drunk, not me.”

“Oh man, did you shove him out of the way of an oncoming car? That's hot.”

Phil laughs. “If you say so.”

“I do. You're a good-looking guy, you should just ask him if he's cruising you.”

“Even if he's a lot younger and prettier?”

“Not everybody wants young and pretty,” she says, and Phil has to concede the point.

It t urns out, as it usually does, that Bobbi is a filthy, filthy liar. She said there would be no hot wax involved in this spa day and here are two big tubs of it. Thankfully, this is soft white paraffin, and it's just another, even hotter soak. He can't help a little purring noise as the heat soaks into his bones. It's incredibly soothing and he almost dozes off in the chair before the girls return to pull their feet out and wrap them in plastic before going away again.

“What color are you getting?” Bobbi asks at last.

“Color?”

“Don't be lame, Phil. If you just get clear polish I will be so mad. It's not like anyone sees your feet anyway.”

“True. What were you thinking of?”

“Classic red, maybe. You should get something with glitter.”

“Look, there's broadening my concept of masculinity and there's living the stereotype, and glitter might cross that line.”

Bobbi laughs, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Please.”

In the end Phil opts for a rosy pink that's probably something his mother would wear. Still, it's pretty. There's even a tiny bit of silver glitter in it, much to Bobbi's delight.

The next morning Phil sits at his kitchen table, bare feet resting in a patch of sunlight, and wiggles his toes to watch the silver shimmer as he waits for Clint to pick up his phone. It's before ten, it doesn't seem unreasonable to hope that he'll answer.

“Hey,” Clint says on the fifth ring. “What's up?”

“This is Phil Coulson, about the photos.”

“Good morning,” he says, sounding delighted. “Sorry I stormed off, I was pretty shook up. Personal history. Did you decompress all right?”

“Yes, I was more worried about you.”

“Well, I've got my shit together, and I'm free tomorrow if you can scrounge someone up on short notice.”

“It's a pretty soft gig, we'll get someone. Should we use your office?”

“It's a thought, but I also have to attend an event at the Heathman. It's a pretty good backdrop and about equidistant. And it has a very nice bar.”

“Then we'd better schedule this for afternoon, then,” Phil says, and Clint laughs.

Since Phil did the actual interviewing, it's not even odd for him to go with Bobbi and May to this photo session, and Bobbi is positively gleeful about it. May is quiet, the way she has been since her award-winning series on Darfur. It will probably be good for her to do something this easy.

The Heathman Hotel is a gorgeous old building, and May perks up a bit when she sees how the lovely golden light is falling through all the dramatic windows. They're early, of course, and May hunts up two good rooms by the time Clint gets there. It's another warm day and he's in the classic ribbed undershirt. It's pristine white and clings to him and Phil isn't sure he can deal with this, or whether he's more disappointed or relieved when Clint puts on the light sweater that he's carrying, the hotel's air conditioning cooler than the late spring day outside. Phil thinks of the famous photographs of James Dean and of course blushes. He can feel it, and Clint's little smile isn't making things any easier. 

Somehow he gets it under control and makes introductions all around and then fades into the background to watch Clint lounge on sofas, lean against walls, and catch the sunlight over both profiles. Any passerby would mistake this for some kind of fashion shoot, probably a bid to sell the sweater, which is a nice one. It's thin and grey and looks very soft. Phil does not think about touching it.

Bobbi gets in a short interview of her own, and May makes good use of the light while it lasts. At last she's done, however, and sure enough, Clint comes sauntering over to the armchair Phil has set up camp in.

“I believe I promised you a drink,” he says softly, and offers him a hand up. Phil takes it, and miraculously does not blush.

The place is an opulent temple to inebriation, and they settle at the black glass bar top. The man behind it greets them with the low-key courtesy that's the mark of a truly upscale establishment, and Clint gestures for Phil to order first. He gets top-shelf whiskey because he can, and Clint joins him in it. The barkeep floats off to clean something and Clint gently clinks his glass against Phil's.

“You know, I'm really glad Bobbi couldn't interview me,” he says, and this time Phil does blush. “God, you're adorable.”

“So you _are_ cruising me, then.”

Clint laughs and for a horrible second Phil thinks that it's at the very idea, rather than about dense he is. In a friendly way. “Yes, sugar, I'm cruising you. Now should I cruise on by, or hang around?”

Phil fights the urge to slump forward and hide his face in his arms. “I... I'm not very experienced,” he forces himself to say, and Clint blinks in surprise, which is kind of flattering. “With men,” Phil clarifies, trying to keep his voice low without dropping into the kind of shamefaced mumbling that he has spent months training himself out of. “Took me a while to figure out the obvious.”

“Oh.” Clint takes a long swig of his drink. “I dunno, you're pretty straight-acting, and sex with women is a hell of a lot better than a sharp stick in the eye.”

Phil chuckles. “It is.”

Clint's phone rings and a flash of despair crosses his face. “Christ, I'm so busy for the rest of the week.” He drains his glass. “Look, I've got to go, but I'll give you a call when I can get a minute, all right?”

“All right,” Phil says, feeling a little dazed. Clint leaves the cost of the drinks on the bar, returning his missed call as he walks away. He glances back once, catches Phil's eye, and winks.

Naturally, when Bobbi comes to collect him, she is insufferable in her triumph. “He is gay and he was cruising you and I was right about everything!” she crows as May drives them back to the Shield, and Phil rolls his eyes, too pleased to complain much. “Man, I'm barely pissed about getting sick, now. I still get my byline, and you might actually get laid! With a man!”

“I'm rooting for you, Phil,” May adds from the driver's seat, totally deadpan.

“Your support means so much,” he drawls, and tips his head back and closes his eyes to comfortably ignore Bobbi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phil is thinking of this series of photographs, which also hung in poster form in the freshman dorm of a wide-eyed young Not_You: 
> 
> http://www.jamesdean.com/about/photos/tornsweater.html


	4. The Drunk Dial

Clint touches base the next day, but that's all it is, a total call length of less than five minutes to assure Phil that they'll talk like real people on Sunday. He sounds tired and harried, and Phil wants to hold him, make him relax for a moment. He settles for telling Clint that he's always glad to hear from him. He does sound happier when he hangs up and Phil has to take deep breaths and tell himself not to fret about being old and balding.

This gets easier when he gets dragged into bar crawling. Jasper is the designated driver and with Bobbi on one side and May on the other, there is no hope of escaping sober. Phil doesn't mind. He hasn't been well and truly drunk in a while, and he dances like an idiot and drinks weird fruity girl-drinks and he's fairly ripped when they pile into a cab to a gay bar Phil keeps meaning to visit. They're in a cab because that fucking traitor Jasper got drunk, and they give him shit for it the whole way there.

The gay bar turns out to be a mistake. Not only are they way too old to be there, but it's dark and crowded and loud and losing track of each other is kind of inevitable. Phil starts to get claustrophobic, and finally fights his way across a tiny dance floor and out of an exit that's he's probably not supposed to use. He stumbles out into a filthy alley but the air is fresh compared to the haze inside the bar, and he breathes a sigh of relief. He stands and just watches the arc lights over the parking lot, thinking that they look kind of like big, glowing fish of some kind. He is profoundly drunk. He realizes this when he has somehow made it to the corner, and he's just going to turn around and get back into the bar when he hears a low, nasty, snigger. It's the only warning he gets before there's someone on his back, trying to drag him onto the ground. As Phil struggles to find the right leverage to throw him, he hears two others. The words don't really matter. He's a faggot, they're gonna show him what happens to faggots, give him a little rough trade, ha ha ha.

Phil would be angry sober, but sloppy drunk he throws his man and then kicks him hard in the ribs. The other two rush him together, and Phil stomps and kicks and doesn't even think to yell. He takes his openings when he sees them and then just keeps doing. Why give an asshole one elbow to the head when you can give him three? The first one picks himself up, but they're pretty demoralized, nursing nasty bruises from this old fag who looks like somebody's dad. There's another little scuffle and then they break and run. And Phil runs after them, because fuck them, they have only begun to learn the fear. He kicks up a rock without breaking his stride and catches it, hurling it forward and clipping one of them on the elbow, making him howl. 

It's so satisfying that only after he has chased them through a vacant lot and into a culvert with a few more stones and a vicious kick in the ass to the one that fell behind that he realizes that he has no idea where he is or where the bar is, and that Jasper has his phone for safekeeping. In his current state it makes him feel like crying, a sudden and swoopy swing from fine, clear rage to this maudlin crap. He takes several deep breaths, and then sees a phone lying at his feet. It must belong to one of these fine and upstanding young men, since it has a 'Cool Story Babe, Now Get Me A Sandwich' sticker on it. Mercifully it is unlocked and Phil can dial the number scribbled onto Clint's business card.

“Clint?” his voice cracks a little, and he suddenly feels very alone here in this weed-choked lot.

“Phil, what's wrong?” Clint goes from fuzzy to awake in about five seconds.

“It's kind of a long story,” Phil says, fighting to keep his voice from wobbling. “I don't know where I am.”

“Shit.” He can hear Clint getting up and moving around his room. “Okay, do you remember where you were?”

“...Some gay bar on the south side of the city, but I don't remember the name,” Phil admits, still feeling maudlin and now so tired that he wonders if it would be okay to just sleep on the ground for a while. 

He slurs as much to Clint, who says, “Just... just stay there. I'll come get you.” And he does. Phil isn't really sure how long it takes, but there's Clint, almost running through the weeds that swish against his legs. “Phil?” he calls, sounding more anxious that Phil has ever heard him. “Phil!”

“'M over here,” Phil croaks, and then makes an even worse noise as he lurches forward to throw up into the bushes without getting any on himself. Clint gives him some paper towels once he's done, and then helps him up and guides him to his car.

“I can see that you're shitfaced and I respect that,” Clint says, bucking Phil into the passenger seat, “but please try and tell me what the hell happened.”

“Bash-back!” Phil says, and cackles. “Three punks wanted to beat up a fag and picked the wrong one. How'd you find me?”

“I tracked the phone. I know, I know, but I was really worried. And it's not your phone anyway.”

“Nope,” Phil burbles. “It has douchestickers on it. I don' like douchestickers.”

“Nor do I,” Clint says, and Phil smiles to himself before blacking out. There is nothing between that moment and waking up in a hotel bed, and he sits up all once, queasy and profoundly disoriented. It's a relief to find himself still dressed in last night's clothes. His wallet is on the nightstand, along with painkillers, orange juice, and a note. The pills and the juice have EAT ME and DRINK ME labels in Clint's handwriting, and that's cuter than it should be. He unfolds the note, which is scribbled onto two pieces of folded hotel stationery.

_Phil, I didn't want to take you to the ER when you didn't need it, but you also weren't coherent enough to tell me where you live. I did manage to find Bobbi's number from when she first contacted me, so don't worry, your friends know you're alive.  
\--Clint_

Getting up, he finds that his shoes are beside the bed, and puts them on just as someone knocks on the door that must adjoin this to another room. He opens it, and Clint smiles at him. “Hey. How are you feeling?”

“Queasy. Headachey.” He pauses. “Glad that I know you.”

“The feeling's mutual, sugar. You think you could manage some breakfast?” Queasy as Phil is, it's the kind where food will help instead of making it worse, and he says so. “Any particular preference?” Clint asks.

“I think a judicious mix of grease and fresh fruit is what I need, if we can get it,” Phil says, and Clint smiles.

“I'll manage.” He ducks back into his room, returning with a neat stack of folded clothing. “Go shower. The food should be here by the time you get out, and these will fit well enough while we wash your clothes.”

“Thank you,” Phil says, pretty sure that he's blushing again. Clint just looks into his eyes like he's seeing something rare and precious there. He touches Phil's stubbly cheek, poised like he wants to kiss him, or at least get closer somehow. Phil's heart does a passable impression of a snare drum, and he flees to the bathroom.


	5. The Hotel

Phil showers quickly and does not jerk off despite the temptation to do so. He's surprised to feel good enough for this to be an actual problem. He usually doesn't really think about anything or anyone, and if he's going to think of Clint, he wants some time to really linger over it and not be eating breakfast with the man immediately afterward. Maybe later in his own bed he can think about Clint, and maybe then he can get a little more use out of his tiny tube of medical-grade lubricant. Some rubbing near his asshole by women had been nice, and more direct attention from his own fingers had been nicer still, but he has yet to manage to get more than one finger into himself and actually enjoy it.

This line of thought of course takes him from half-hard to completely inappropriate for company, but he just turns the water on as hot as he can stand it, which works as well for his problem as cold would have while being conducive to shaving and much more pleasant. The battle isn't yet won, because he still has to get out, dry off without touching himself too much, and then put on Clint's actual clothes which have been on Clint's actual body. Not too recently, thank god. Clothes that smelled like Clint would be the end of him. These just barely smell like detergent, and they fit reasonably well. Jeans that are probably baggy on Clint and just barely contain Phil's middle-aged belly, a white button-down shirt that's probably similarly loose, and a package of socks and underwear.

Phil has just buttoned his last button and is tossing the plastic and cardboard into the trash when there's a light knock at the door. “Room service,” Clint says, and Phil smiles. He opens the door to find Clint is also freshly-showered, wearing another of those damn undershirts and a pair of jeans that fit him much more tightly than the ones Phil is wearing would. Sober and awake Phil can see that that this is a suite with a connecting door to the bedroom he spent the night in, so there's an actual dining table, and room service has indeed been here.

Phil is a little bit overwhelmed by the array of choices. Clint has apparently gotten a side order of every kind of fresh fruit the place offers, from apples to papaya, as well as bacon, sausage, and ham in similar portions. There are also pancakes, waffles, and English muffins, as well as some eggs and a few other things he can't even identify on sight. There is also, thank god, an enormous pot of what smells like extremely strong coffee. He starts there, pouring a cup as Clint picks up a smaller pitcher of what Phil was assuming was cream brought up by default. As he pours it into his own mug, it turns out to be hot chocolate, and Phil smiles. It's Clint's turn to blush for once, just a very faint tinge of pink over the cheekbones, but still a bit of a personal victory for Phil.

“Cocoa is how I start my day when I have a choice. I only drink coffee to look like a grownup.”

Phil can feel his smile stretching wider. “It doesn't work very well, so you might as well have what you like.”

Clint smiles back. “Maybe so, but I'd have to keep making coffee for guests, anyway.”

“Thank you, by the way,” Phil says, selecting several apple slices, a piece of bacon, and a poached egg when one of the covered dishes turns out to be full of them.

“You're more than welcome,” Clint says, and starts assembling eggs Benedict for himself, complete with Hollandaise from another little pitcher that makes Phil glad that he doesn't take cream in his coffee and there's no possibility of a tragic accident. “What happened last night, anyway?”

Phil sighs. “Well, a bunch of us were getting repellently drunk in public, as journalists do, and we decided to stop by... god, I still can't remember the name. Pass the sauce when you're done with it?” Clint does, and Phil puts a little on his toast as he continues. “It was so packed they were probably violating the fire code, and we lost each other about a minute after crossing the threshold. Jasper, our worthless and traitorous designated driver, had gotten drunk but was holding onto my phone from when he was a sober and responsible person, so I didn't have it when I got desperate for some air, and then, well...” He shrugs. “There were three of them, about twenty-two or so, all white, one taller than me, the others about the same. Jeans and sweat shirts and sneakers, decent, inconspicuous ass-kicking gear, and I can't to swear to anything but one of them having really pale hair. They jumped me and I got so mad I chased them when they ran. I have no idea which of their phones that was,” he adds.

“I put it in a plastic bag to give to the police. They'll find out.”

Phil sighs, because of course he has to report this. Not every drunk person to stagger out that door will be combat trained and at just the right level of inebriation to fling himself into action like Phil had. “Didn't we just get nearly creamed by a drunk driver?”

“Shit, has it even been a week?”

“Not until tomorrow,” Phil says, and Clint laughs.

“Jesus. I hope this shit doesn't come in threes.”

“Me too.”

“Phil, what are you going for the next few days? Besides maybe police interviews, I mean.”

“Not much else.” He smiles at Clint, who suddenly looks a little sad. “What's wrong?”

“Just thinking that the odds of this working out aren't too great. No reason not to try, though.” He smiles again. “Okay, you said you weren't very experienced with men. How are you with kink? I don't want to throw too much at you at once.”

Phil feels himself blushing yet again, remembering blindfolds and ribbon bondage. “I, uh... I've done some of that kind of thing. With a woman, but I liked it.”

Clint leers, but in a friendly way. “I think you should tell me all about it. Over dinner tomorrow night, perhaps.”

“I've heard worse ideas.”

“I was here on business anyway, I can just stay another night. Is there any decent French around here?”

Phil laughs. “Not that I know of. How formal were you thinking?”

“Hmm. Well, you do look sharp in a suit. Do you get those tailored?”

“I do. I'm medium enough to get pretty close off the rack. It was harder when I was younger.” And more fit, and he has another little wash of insecurity, looking across the table at Clint's perfection.

“You're really cute in my clothes,” Clint purrs, and Phil ducks his head, staring into his plate to collect himself. There's that same weird vibe of ownership Phil had felt in their interview, but this is stronger, sweeter, and more personal.

“I... Thank you.” He says, glad that his voice comes out normally. He risks a glance up at Clint, and Clint just smiles.

After they finish their breakfast Clint offers to drop Phil off at his place, which he naturally accepts, now that he's physically capable of telling Clint where he lives. He gathers his things and takes possession of the cellphone in its neat little bag, putting all of it into a large paper bag from a bookstore that Clint hasn't gotten around to throwing away. The whole time he can feel Clint watching him, and he's actually not very surprised when Clint pins him to the wall of the elevator and kisses him. The bag is already resting at his feet, so it's easy for Clint to grab both of his hands, lacing their fingers together and holding Phil's hands to the wall above his head. He kisses Phil and it's rough, but also slow and controlled and Phil can't do anything but open to it, squeezing Clint's hands and making a little noise of approval in his throat.

“Pardon my outburst,” Clint pants against Phil's mouth, barely far enough away to speak.

“Consider yourself pardoned,” Phil says, sounding even more breathless than Clint does.

“Mm. I miss your stubble,” Clint says, nuzzling Phil's cheek. “Shit, you did this with a hotel razor?”

“I'm very skilled,” Phil tells him, glancing over his head at the numbers, “and we're getting near the lobby.”

“I hate everyone but you,” Clint mutters, releasing his hands, kissing his cheek, and picking his bag up for him like a gentleman. Phil chuckles, making sure his clothes are in order before taking it. 

“Thank you, Mr. Barton,” he coos, and Clint makes a beautiful, frustrated noise in the back of his throat.

The day is bright and summery as they walk out of the front doors, and of course Clint drives a goddamn Ferrari, something that looks fast standing still. At least it isn't red. Vibrant purple, so it's still flashy, but at least not cliché. He also drives the thing like it deserves to be driven, making Phil slightly nervous and getting him to his own building entirely too fast. It seems like it has hardly been any time at all when he has to get out. Phil's phone may be with Jasper, but like his wallet, he keeps his key with him no matter how drunk he gets. He thanks Clint again and they linger just long enough for it to be awkward and for neither of them to mind, but finally Phil goes into the building to use the landline to call Jasper and then the police, resigning this beautiful spring day to bureaucracy and drop-tile ceilings.


	6. The Dinner Date

It doesn't take long for Phil to give his statement, or for his friends to answer a few questions. It's always weirdly homey in a police station for Phil, but he's still glad to get out and be able to talk about the good part of his day. He's not ashamed of what he is anymore, he's not, but this is still new enough to feel very private, so in the station Clint is just a friend. His friends know better, and Bobbi is as horrible as always over lunch, and even Jasper is grinning at him. This is the problem with having friends who know how bad he is at being gay. Even May has a line about eligible young bachelors, and by the time Phil finally escapes he just wants to go home, which he does. He has the rest of the day off, even if he does spend most of it working from home.

In the long, hot afternoon when he feels like taking a break to jerk off, he can stretch out on his bed in comfort, with the lube and an open mind. He thinks of Clint as he slowly strokes himself to hardness, the way he moves and his arms and eyes and hair and laugh. He's so fucking gorgeous, and his hands are so strong. Phil shudders, remembering their moment in the elevator. He imagines it getting stuck, or the ride lasting long enough that there's plenty of time for Clint to kiss him stupid and then to rip the shirt open, sending buttons everywhere. Phil knows he's strong enough and bites his lip, whining as his cock twitches in his hand.

In his fantasy, Clint tells him not to move and Phil is breathless and eager to obey, the same kind of behavior that made one of his college girlfriends laugh and call him a freak. Fantasy Clint likes it, though, and there's a good chance that the real one will too. Fantasy Clint kneels as Phil's feet and grips his cock tightly, but not too hard, grinning up at Phil as he gives him a few long, slow strokes. Phil whimpers in the fantasy and in reality, and fantasy Clint swallows him down to the base. Phil groans, and when fantasy Clint starts pressing and rubbing over his hole with one magically-slick fingertip, Phil scrambles to replicate it in real life.

As usual, it's all fun and games until he gets to the middle joint of his index finger. It starts to sting a bit then, but nothing that will keep him from pushing the rest in. He's still not that great at finding his prostate from the inside and this time he hits it too hard, which hurts and makes the rest of the sensation more off-putting than pleasurable. He adds a little more lube and the second pass is better. When he's close to coming, he decides to risk two. It hurts the way it does every time, and he hisses as it stretches him wider and wider, sliding in beside the first finger. Just when it hurts so bad he thinks he'll have to stop, he imagines Clint jacking him hard and fast and pushing even deeper, telling him to take the pain, and he lets out a formless little noise and comes all over the sheet.

He goes back to work after cleaning up, but he's distracted all evening and not much better the next morning. He's not on anything particularly demanding right now, though. His piece on youth homelessness is still being edited, and he spends his day hammering out filler and looking at stuff from the slush pile. He isn't up to much more intellectually-demanding work, anyway.

Bobbi is for once, not horrible. She doesn't tease him too much, and persuades Jasper not to, either. And he gets a call from Pepper, who is not horrible at all and is very happy to hear that Phil has a date tonight. Phil doesn't mention who it's with for two reasons: one, she and Clint move in some of the same circles and it would be embarrassing, and two, she sounds completely exhausted and he doesn't want to give her anything further to think about. She advises him to wear something blue to bring out his eyes, and to visit her in a few days when the jet-lag has worn off. He promises that he will, on both counts, and she hangs up to go to bed at eleven o'clock in the morning.

What feels like an eternity later, Phil can finally go home and try on five different blue shirts. He finally settles on a royal blue button-down that he received as a gift and almost never wears, and a grey jacket and matching slacks. Without a tie he leaves the top two buttons undone; and all things considered, looks fairly sharp by the time he leaves.

They're meeting at a new place that Clint hasn't tried yet and that Phil can't afford to try without firsthand witnesses to assure him that it's worth the price. This way he gets to try it in a goddamn private table, which Clint has reserved for them. Phil spends the whole cab ride worrying about how conspicuous he's going to feel, but when he gets there he finds that they're not the only ones. There's a whole row of private rooms, and several of the others are occupied. The style of the place is very haute-folk, with big wooden beams and some stone floors, but thankfully only a few random farm implements. These are on shelves or stands rather than hung on the walls, at least, and the wooden chairs have comfortable cushions.

Opening the door to his table, Phil finds Clint waiting for him. He looks up from his phone and beams at the sight of Phil. “There you are. That's a great shirt, even if I'm starting to feel like we should've worn overalls or something.”

“You'd pull them off very well,” Phil says, settling into his chair and looking up when their server comes in to tell them about specials and to ask if they want the wine list, which they do.

“I also can't believe that there's actually a red-checked tablecloth,” Clint mutters after they've been left alone with menus and water.

“It is a little self-conscious,” Phil says, glancing at the single red rose in a Mason jar on the center of the table, “okay, a lot self-conscious, but at least it's comfortable.”

“True. None of that hyper-modern ice box stuff, or places that think all the cool kids eat in pitch blackness. And this place serves recognizable dishes and not freeze-dried salmon with wasabi ice cream and fried turnip shavings or whatever.”

The menu is full of recognizable foods. It's a pretty good schtick, actually, Midwestern-friendly meat and potatoes but done with top quality ingredients and some actual flair. The meatloaf involves veal, and the potatoes are Yukon Golds, that kind of thing.

Over pot roast and chicken and dumplings, they talk about work, Phil's coming court date, whether or not the Yukon Golds are all that special, whether or not Mason jars have been completely ruined yet, and the precise nature of the obvious curse on the Chicago Cubs. They order dessert and linger over it until Clint asks if Phil wants to come back to his place. His actual home, a little over an hour away. On the condition that he either get right the hell up when Phil tells him to or be prepared to provide a one-way plane ticket to get him to work on time, Phil agrees.

This drive is a lot longer than the one from the hotel to Phil's apartment, and Phil feels much more shy about it. Thankfully Clint has the sense to read his mood and just put on some music. Classic rock, all about sex but old enough to be mostly harmless. He keeps his hands on the wheel and his eyes on the road, and sometimes sings along with the music. His voice lilts up higher than Phil would have expected, and there's a smooth sweetness to it, a simultaneously trained and artless quality that Phil could listen to all day. Clint would sing him to sleep if he wasn't so utterly, almost painfully, awake.

As they get close to their destination, Clint starts pointing out the few visible landmarks, and noting the relevant street names. “I want you to know your way,” he says, and of course he does, but the idea of actually getting familiar with this commute makes Phil shiver.


	7. Paperwork, a Purple Playroom, and the Beginning of the First Time

Clint's building is of course stupidly nice, and they go straight up to the penthouse, which is surprisingly normal. Phil can't help but remember what happened the last time they were alone in an elevator, and this one has mirrored walls that let him see infinite copies of the sly smile Clint gives him and of his own flush in response. Clint takes his hand and squeezes it before pulling him closer to just hold him. Phil is much calmer when they reach the top floor at last. The apartment is huge, of course, but it's not _too_ nice. The couch is real leather in a deep shade of purple that must be custom and what looks like a Matisse on the wall is probably real, but there's some strewn clothing, books left out on the coffee table, and other signs that someone actually lives here. There's also a panoramic view of the city through the massive windows, and Phil automatically wanders over to them, fascinated.

“Drink?” Clint asks.

“If you are,” Phil says, not looking away. Clint wanders into the kitchen, leaving Phil to really examine the vista. After a minute or two, he realizes that he can see pretty much every Hawkeye Inc. property in the city from here, and laughs. “Did you do this on purpose?” he asks as Clint returns and hands him a chilled cocktail glass.

“I like to keep an eye on things,” Clint admits.

“And what have you made us?” Phil says, examining the drink, which is a creamy, pale coffee color, and appears to have nutmeg sprinkled on top.

“This, sugar, is a brandy Alexander,” Clint says, gently tapping his glass to Phil's. “It is sweet, smooth, and old-fashioned, and now that I say it like that it reminds me of you.” He takes a sip and Phil does the same, blushing yet again. It is incredibly sweet, but Phil can taste quality cognac and takes another sip.

“It's strange, but I like it,” Phil says. “And right back at you with the metaphor.”

Clint laughs, and kisses his cheek. “Come on, I'm enough of a freak that there's paperwork.”

“Just don't laugh when I ask you to define anything. I don't know what you kids get up to these days.”

Clint laughs and takes his arm, leading him to the purple couch where he can wait in comfort for the documents. They must be close to hand, because Clint is back in seconds, settling next to Phil and setting a neat pile in front of him. “This early on these are mostly lists of kinks and limits. I have mine filled out to give you some idea what I get up to, but please, seriously, do not freak out. That has happened and it is not pleasant.”

Phil blinks at him. “I realize that this is a negotiation, Clint. If I thought you'd whine and beg for anything that freaked me out, I wouldn't be here. And I barely know what I like anyway, so I'm keeping an open mind.”

The relief on Clint's face is almost painful to look at, and Phil can see why as he reads over these lists. As predicted, he barely knows what some of this stuff even is, and Clint has expressed interest in a slightly alarming number of different ways to cause pain. Phil can't help a little grimace. “I'm not sure how much of a masochist I am,” he says, and Clint laughs, quiet and nervous.

“I know, I know, it's a lot in black and white. And I'm not going to lie and say that I'll never want to cause you pain, but there are a lot of forms of it. As long as you're enjoying it in itself and/or taking it for me, I'll enjoy it.” He sighs. “I hate having to do this so early, but it's a mistake to leave it for later.”

“I can see how it would be,” Phil says, turning his attention to his own copy of this kink form. “Well, I know that I like being tied up,” he says, picking up a pen to indicate his interest, “and I can take or leave being blindfolded, and I'm all right with being marked and I'm sure a spanking won't break me even if it isn't all that sexy...” he continues down the page, leaving a lot of blanks and question marks. He's glad to see that Clint doesn't seem to mind this. He looks a lot more relaxed now that Phil has proven himself on the not freaking out front, and Phil wonders if the warm little glow he feels at that is some kind of submissive thing.

Once he has gotten as far as he can on the paperwork without actual research, he sets the pen down. “So. Do you have your own dungeon?”

“It's not a dungeon,” Clint says, grinning. “It's the Purple Palace of Pain. Natasha named it for me.” He looks a little nervous again. “I'll show you of course, but remember that we don't _have_ to use any of it.”

“Clint, don't be ridiculous,” Phil says, and takes his hand, lacing their fingers together and giving it a reassuring squeeze. Clint squeezes back, and leads him down the hall to an ordinary door. He opens it and flicks a switch to illuminate the whole room, and Phil manages to keep the shock out of his face. The expanse of rich, royal purple is luxurious and slightly womb-like. All the leather matches the walls, and the room has its own immense bed. Phil wasn't expecting this place to be quite so expansive, and he can't deny that the caning stand and the rack of whips and the collection of actual knives make him nervous, but he knows that Clint wouldn't force him to do anything, and when he looks back over at him he looks irritated and ashamed of himself.

“I did not remember that those knives were right there and I am so sorry because of _course_ that's really heavy shit.”

“Hey, it's okay,” Phil says, kissing Clint's cheek. “I trust you.” Clint actually whimpers at that, suddenly looking very young and almost unbearably tentative. Phil shivers and kisses him, making a little noise of his own to feel Clint's new stubble rasping against his own. “I'm also essentially a gay virgin, and I'd like to work on that.”

Clint shivers and switches off the lights, leading Phil to his actual bedroom. There's a lot of purple here, but it's not an opulent and theatrical play space, so it's pretty much just the carpet and the bedding. The bed is still huge, though, and Phil sits on the edge of it, suddenly feeling like a college freshman again. Clint kneels between his knees and starts unbuttoning his shirt. He takes his time over it, unveiling Phil's skin like it's some delicate work of art. He doesn't seem to mind that Phil is just sitting there dumbfounded and letting him. He sighs at the sight of Phil's chest hair, leaning in to nuzzle it and moan quietly. He presses a kiss to Phil's sternum and then finishes opening his shirt.

“Are these pretty things sensitive?” he asks, tracing a circle around each of Phil's nipples, using both forefingers at once and making Phil shiver.

“I... I don't really know,” Phil admits, feeling stupid. With a woman the focus is on her tits, not his. He has been kissed and bitten there in a scatter-shot way that was pretty good, but he never thought to ask for more attention or even to try it himself. For Phil masturbation is fairly utilitarian, and his hands generally stay below the waist.

“Let's find out then,” Clint says softly, his thumbs rubbing soft circles on them now, not around, and Phil's mouth drops open because yes, he is sensitive there. Clint chuckles, the sound more happy than mocking, and presses a little more firmly. 

Phil's spine arches on its own, pushing his chest forward into Clint's hands. “Oh...”

“Let's get you onto your back,” Clint says, his voice a little husky. “It's the best angle for this kind of thing.”

Phil toes his shoes off and hangs his shirt over the bedpost before stretching out on his back and reaching for Clint to join him. Clint is reduced to furiously kicking to quickly rid himself of his boots, and Phil snickers at him. He grins, eyes narrowed in mock anger as he crawls up the mattress to lie down beside Phil. 

“Bad boy,” he says, giving Phil's nipple a firm pinch. His tone is playful, but the words and the touch combine to make Phil gasp and tremble, biting his lip in a bid to keep his mouth from gaping.

“Let it out,” Clint says softly, pinching him again and holding on this time, just barely rolling his fingertips. Phil moans, getting louder as Clint bites his neck. Clint growls, sucking and biting before propping himself up to work both nipples slow and hard as he kisses Phil. The feeling of each stroke and squeeze seems to echo in his cock, and he can't do anything but clutch at Clint, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt and moaning quietly. Phil has always been quiet in bed, but maybe that's another thing that only happens when he has sex with women. He cries out when Clint lowers his head to suck on one, cool lips pressing to his skin in a kiss, warm tongue licking circles and Phil is panting now, the sound harsh as he lets his mouth hang open because Clint wants to hear him.

Clint switches sides and Phil moans again, tangling his legs with Clint's, rutting against his hard cock even with all this fabric in the way. Clint growls again and bites one side, pinching the other, and then Phil is letting out a weird, thready little cry and bucking uncontrollably as he comes in his pants.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes, kissing Phil's slack mouth. He's trembling, and Phil blushes and hides his face in Clint's shoulder, completely embarrassed.

“I have never had this problem before,” he mumbles, and Clint laughs.

“What problem? Even if you can't manage another one, there's still plenty of fun to be had here.” He grins, kneeling up and taking off his shirt. Well, one of them, but one of his tight white undershirts is definitely a step in the right direction. He hangs it with Phil's and then wriggles out of his pants and hisses as his cock springs free of his boxer-briefs. He's so hard that it must be painful, and Phil is glad to see that he's not so big that it's intimidating. He looks over at Phil and grins.

“What about your pants?”

“What about that goddamn undershirt?” Phil grumbles, wriggling out of his pants.

Clint grimaces. “It covers a part I don't like people touching, and that whole conversation is a total boner-killer. Can we have it later?”

“Of course,” Phil says. “I'm sorry, but I'm sure you can understand why I want to see you naked.”

“Oh, totally,” Clint says with a cocky grin. “I'm a fuckin' god made flesh.”

Phil laughs, draping his remaining clothes over the footboard. He can't help a little flash of self-consciousness, but it passes with the look Clint gives him, like nothing matters but touching him.


	8. The Rest of the First Time

For all his desire, Clint is patient. He lies there, achingly hard but just holding Phil, kissing his neck and lazily playing with his nipples. Phil is glad to have some time to collect himself. “God, you're so fucking beautiful,” he whispers, and Clint sighs, hugging him tightly.

“Thank you. You are too, you know.”

“For a given value of beautiful,” Phil says.

“For a given value of 'hot enough to burn.' Jesus, look at you.” He kisses Phil again, hissing at the incidental contact of the tip of his cock and Phil's thigh.

“Let me take care of that for you,” Phil says, and Clint chuckles.

“Not yet. I want to see if you can come again.”

“That's not fair, I'm older!” Phil whines, and Clint laughs.

“Okay, let's try this,” Clint says, sitting up. He guides Phil to do the same, propping him up against the headboard with a bewildering menagerie of pillows. It's very comfortable though, and Clint sits down between Phil's open legs, settling with his back against Phil's chest. “I wanted you to show me how you jerk off,” Clint says, guiding Phil's hands to his cock. “Instead, you can demonstrate on me.” 

Phil chuckles. “I'm not very interesting, but okay.” Phil generally uses lube, but Clint is oozing precome everywhere, and the result is about the same. He grips firmly, in the way he already knows isn't enough for some guys, and then starts sliding up and down the shaft with the funny grip people call backwards, long, pulling strokes with his wrist forward and his middle finger pressing up and back, sliding to base of the shaft and pressing gently at Clint's balls.

“Th-that's interesting,” Clint says, shivering. He's staring down at Phil's hand, fascinated. Phil speeds up a bit and adds the little twist at the tip that he likes so much and it makes Clint groan quietly in his chest. Phil tightens his grip and Clint cries out, hips starting to rock into Phil's hand. The motion is tight and controlled and lets Phil feel all that muscle shifting against him, the soft cotton of the undershirt not nearly as obnoxious as it could be. Clint lets his head fall back onto Phil's shoulder and lets out a loud moan as Phil shifts his grip a little and moves faster and faster, the desperate speed that's sometimes the only thing that can take him over the top.

By the time Clint finishes bucking and moaning and coming all over Phil's hand, Phil is almost entirely hard again, the sleek skin at the base of Clint's spine rubbing mercilessly against him.

“Ha,” Clint pants, feeling it. “I knew it.”

“You knew it,” Phil says, and once Clint has caught his breath he bounces up to get wet wipes for them to clean up a bit before they make the mess worse.

“And we are going to make the mess worse,” Clint says, eyes alight with a kind of predatory joy that makes Phil feel a little thrill of what is entirely anticipation. He has Phil stretch out on his belly this time, putting one of the myriad pillows under his hips, assuring Phil that it's washable as he does so, which makes Phil laugh and settle into it more comfortably. Clint runs a hand down his back and then does it again, just stroking Phil for a bit before getting some lube out of the nightstand.

“I can only get one finger in before it hurts,” Phil tells him, and Clint shrugs.

“That's still fun. And sometimes it's easier when it's someone else. It's like getting too hungry and eating too fast. You get really horny and then you're rough with yourself. I'll go slow, and we'll see what happens.” He leans over kiss Phil's cheek, and then sits back to admire Phil for a moment before kissing and nuzzling the cheeks of his ass for a nice, soothing moment before he even rubs one slick fingertip across Phil's hole. Phil whimpers and buries his face in another pillow, squirming as Clint just makes gentle circles, spreading the lube everywhere and just teasing, pressing in a little harder but not pushing inside and Phil moans, because he wants them there so much. The sound is low and needy and Clint sighs.

“God, Phil, I feel so fucking lucky to be doing this.”

“R-really?” Phil gasps, and then cries out softly as Clint slips the first joint of his index finger inside.

“I've wanted you since you fell into my office,” he says, and Phil chuckles, gasping as it makes him tighten on Clint's fingertip. “Oh...” Clint waits for him to relax, and then slides the rest in. 

“That good?” he asks, and Phil nods, clutching the pillow. He glances over his shoulder and Clint smiles, starting to make slow, shallow thrusts. Phil bites his lip and then lets it go, reminding himself that Clint wants to hear him. He arches his back and pants, the sound getting harsher and harsher as Clint starts to fuck in and out.

“You want more, sugar?” he coos, and Phil groans, nodding again. “Come on, daddy, I need you to say it.”

Phil moans quietly. “Y-yes, yes, please...” And then Clint is working his second finger in and Phil moans in a way that isn't quiet at all. Clint starts fucking him again, slow and deep, and it's good, it's so good and then he changes the angle a little and suddenly it's even better, each stroke a relentless deep grind that makes him let out deep, loud moans, a helpless and overwhelmed, “Ohhh, oh, oh, oh...” that only gets louder when Clint somehow sneaks a third finger into him without even a twinge of pain. 

Phil pushes up and back, planting his hands on the bed to keep himself right where he is, letting Clint get as deep as possible and panting before letting out another cacophony of moans as Clint speeds up, adding a little twist to the stroke that makes Phil groan desperately as Clint squeezes his cock with the other hand. After just a few strokes he comes, but Clint keeps stroking him deep inside as his hips rock and his body shakes, squeezing and trembling around Clint's fingers in a way that makes Phil imagine how good he would feel around Clint's cock and twitch in a little aftershock that pulls a low, tired groan out of him as he finally goes still, feeling boneless and utterly content.

And then he thinks of poor Clint, looking over to see him rock hard again. Clint just chuckles. “Don't worry about it, sugar. You mind if I come on you?”

Phil hasn't given much thought to that kind of thing, but his belly tightens and he bites his lip. “Yes,” he says.

“On your back, so you don't have to move?”

“Mmm,” Phil mumbles, “sounds good.”

Clint sighs, breathing hot over the back of his neck and then kissing it before straddling him. “Actually, can I just fuck your back?”

“...If you want to,” Phil says, slightly confused. Clint just chuckles and drizzles lube over Phil's back. The coolness is a shock, and then the heat and softness of Clint's cock and balls grinding along him, slow and hard. He moans quietly, definitely too tired now to do anything more active, but still feeling little shivers of arousal across his whole body as Clint groans and rocks, using him to get off. The idea makes him flush again, but at least he's face down this time. Soon Clint grunts and then cries out softly, the sound at the same unexpected high pitch of his singing. 

Phil moans, and dozes off where he is, coming half-awake when Clint comes back to clean him up, and then about three-quarters awake when he has to stand up so Clint can change out the wet bottom sheet and pillowcase. It seems to take forever, but finally it's done and Phil can crawl back into bed, curling up on his side the way he usually does. Clint cuddles up to him from behind, sighing and nuzzling his face into back of Phil's neck, an arm and a leg wrapped around him.


	9. Breakfast

Phil wakes up in the night, very comfortable but also alone. It's only three am and now he's wondering where Clint is, so he gets up and pulls on his pants and his shirt, fastening one button and padding out on bare feet to investigate. It seems like the whole expanse of the place is dark, with just enough ambient city light to keep him from walking into anything. A few steps away from the bedroom, he hears faint music and follows it through all the unfamiliar shadows. He's pretty sure that the tune is one of Chopin's nocturnes, something quiet and dreamy, appropriate for the small hours of the morning with only a little romantic melancholy. 

There's a still, peaceful quality to Clint's face that Phil has never seen before, and that's what holds him for the first long moment. After that he can't help but register Clint's shirtlessness, and whatever his issues with touching, he never said anything about looking. He looks even better than Phil would have expected, and he just drinks it in for a while before the scars even register. They're low on Clint's side, right around the last rib, and Phil knows what they are without being told. He saw way too much of that shit as a cop. He knows what cigarette burns look like, and there's a little constellation of three of them there, with two higher up and more toward Clint's back. There are other faint scars as well, and nearly every last one of them is laddered with growth. The sight of them makes Phil's heart ache, but looking back to Clint's face soothes it. He's here, safe, and so beautiful.

Just as Phil is considering creeping back to bed without disturbing him, Clint looks up and smiles, fingers still caressing the keys. “Hey,” he says softly, and Phil walks over to lean slightly on the piano, watching him. Clint shifts a bit to his right on the bench. “Sit down.” Phil does, and Clint finishes the song and kisses his cheek. Phil sighs, and leans on Clint. “Sorry to ditch you, you seemed out for the count.”

“It's all right,” Phil says. “You play beautifully.”

Clint puts an arm around him. “Ha, tell that to my teacher.”

“I will,” Phil says, kissing his shoulder. “In a blistering editorial.” Clint chuckles. “What were you playing?” Phil asks.

“Chopin's nocturne number one. It's supposed to be melancholy, but...”

“It sounds dreamy when you play it,” Phil says, “and not sad.”

“Good, because I'm not.” He kisses Phil again, this one landing on the corner of his mouth. “It is incredibly late and we're supposed to get up in the morning, though. Glass of water and back to bed?”

“Probably the most sensible idea,” Phil says. It takes them a long time to put this sensible idea into practice, since the second one of them is resolved and dedicated to one small step of the task, such as selecting a pair of cups, the other will kiss him, and getting two cups of tap water and drinking them takes entirely too long. Even with all the sleep he won't have had in the morning, Phil can't really bring himself to mind.

They manage to finish their water and get to bed without any major mishaps, and when Phil dozes off again he does it with Clint neatly spooned up behind him. It's not like Phil has never been on the inside of an arrangement like this, but it's still novel. And wonderful. He sighs to himself, falling into true sleep until the alarm on his phone goes off at seven. If they leave by eight they'll reach Phil's destination by nine and if he's quick he'll make it in by-- The moment he cancels the alarm the phone rings.

“Phil, where are you?”

He glances over at Clint, sprawled on his belly and breathing in that harsh way that isn't quite snoring. “Good morning to you too, Nicholas.”

Nick grumbles. “Are you coming into work today?”

“Yes,” Phil says, getting up and padding into the bathroom, glad to find mouthwash and floss, since he doesn't have a brush. “I'll be there by ten at the latest, probably more like nine-thirty.”

“...Christ, Phil.” More than anything, he sounds disappointed. “I was thinking I shouldn't call and wake you up if your date had gone that fucking well, but here you are, planning to come into work. You're ridiculous. Take the day off.”

Phil spits mouthwash into the sink. “What?”

“After fifteen years of telling you you might be bi every single time it came up,” Nick says, “stay with the man. You need to get laid.”

“Actually...”

“Get laid _more_ ,” Nick says, and hangs up. Phil showers and goes to rejoin Clint. He doesn't want the poor thing to wake up at ten in a panic, but after another hour or so of sleep he has to get up to take a leak, and after that the natural next step is to borrow a pair of baggy pajama pants and a big black t-shirt with Bill the Nearly-Invisible Bird on it. He scribbles a note to Clint on an index card, propping it on the lamp:

_I have the day off, it turns out.  
\--Phil_

He feels like drawing a heart on it or something, but refrains, just gazing down at Clint for a bit longer and then wandering into the kitchen and get some coffee going. While he waits for the brew he explores the apartment, discovering that one entire side of the vast square footage is an actual tiny archery range. Phil can easily walk in, but anything he could really hurt himself or anyone else with is locked up. He examines the place for a moment longer and then goes out to see about breakfast.

Everything Clint has is expensive, of course, but most of it is recognizable food. Usually Phil has something minimalist and/or portable, but with the whole morning before him he starts a skillet of bacon and a batch of pancake batter. He'll still rummaging through the available fruit when Clint comes wandering into the kitchen with fabulous bedhead and a beaming smile. He's draped in a purple bathrobe maybe a shade lighter than the near-black of the couch, and goes shuffling to a cabinet Phil has yet to investigate, pulling out cocoa mix.

“I probably should have started that for you,” Phil says, and Clint laughs.

“I'll cope. What kind of pancakes are those?”

“They're Phil Coulson's special anyberry cakes,” he says, and Clint laughs and shows him a whole collection of dried, freeze-dried, and frozen fruit. There's everything from grapes to rambutans, and the pancakes end up as delicious and bizarre jeweled galaxies of every color. Even with Clint suggesting a shared bath afterward, Phil still feels a fussy need to at least rinse and stack all the dishes, and only stops there because Clint comes in and takes his arm, laughing.

“Sorry, you've been outpaced. There's hot water that we can get into together, that trumps everything.”

“Everything?”

“Well, most things,” Clint says, leading him into what must be the main bathroom, bigger than the one attached this bedroom and dominated by a huge tub. Clint hangs up the robe and turns to help Phil take off his clothes and get settled on one of the bench seats. Phil would make a crack about poor old men slipping in the bath and hurting themselves, but there's something so genuinely tender about the way Clint does it that makes him not have the heart. The water is very hot, and Clint sighs as he sinks into it to sit beside Phil, resting his arms on the rim of the tub. For a long moment they just soak together, and then Clint starts washing Phil as if they do this every day. It's a little awkward at first, but after a second Phil realizes that he's not expected to do anything, and can just go limp in Clint's hands.

Clint rubs Phil's scalp as he washes his hair, rising it with a detachable shower head and carefully keeping the shampoo out of his eyes. He's so careful that it's not even sexual until he turns off the water and hooks the shower head into place again. That done, he shifts Phil into his lap, letting out a contented sigh as he slides his palms over Phil's chest and belly before sliding up again to pinch his nipples slow and hard. Phil moans and tips his head back, shaking as Clint bites his neck, holding on. It's possessive and it hurts and Phil likes both of those things. Clint pinches harder and Phil groans, back arching even more.

“So fucking gorgeous,” Clint growls, nibbling his ear and sliding one hand down. “Let's see if I remember how this goes,” he murmurs, and Phil whines, panting as Clint starts stroking him. There's a little too much friction at first, but then Clint takes a palmful of the kind of extra-gentle body wash that Phil can bear having on his dick, and things are _perfect_. He gasps as much to Clint, still worried about coming too fast, and Clint trails the tip of his tongue around the edge of Phil's ear and says, “Do it, I don't fucking care if you're hard I care if you're having a good time and you're so fucking sweet and I want you so fucking much just let go--”

Phil can't hear the rest over his own loud groan, which echoes off the walls as he writhes in Clint's arms, coming so hard that it's practically embarrassing. Clint moans softly, rock hard against his back, and all at once Phil knows what must be done.

“Let me suck your cock,” he says, and it comes out as a breathless demand and makes Clint make a weird grinding noise in his throat.

“Fuck, yes,” he says, breathless himself, and sits up on the edge of the tub, watching Phil, who kneels on the bench and looks up at Clint. “You okay?”

“So okay. I've never done this before--” Clint whines sharply, and Phil chuckles. “And I guess that's a plus.” He leans in and wraps his lips around the head, very careful of his teeth. He slides down a little, enjoying the fit and the way the round tip rubs along his palate. Clint groans, putting his hands on Phil's head but just holding onto him, letting him work at his own pace. His thumbs stroke Phil's ears and make him shiver as he swallows more and more of Clint's cock. It's easier than he thought it would be, and he shivers as he reaches his maximum comfortable depth and pulls back. He hums in contentment, pushing down again a little faster. Clint stays completely still as Phil gets a feel for it, but after a while that's too still. Phil feels like he's just playing around, like when he sucks on his fingers to get some idea and daydreams about having someone like Clint.

“Fuck my mouth,” is what Phil says when he pulls off to breathe and wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, and Clint shudders and pulls him back down. He doesn't thrust far enough to make Phil gag, and he files the little twinge of disappointment away for later, moaning softly as Clint rocks into his mouth. He sucks and licks as best he can, feeling each frantic beat of his heart in his cock, hardening again just from having his mouth on Clint. The thought makes him groan and Clint gasps a warning before he's coming, salty-slick in Phil's mouth. He swallows it down and only lets Clint slip out when he's completely soft.

“Fuck,” he breathes, slipping back into the water and kissing Phil, holding him close. “You're amazing.” Phil just shivers, feeling the strength of his arms and the callouses on his hands.


	10. The One Where His Mom Shows Up

“So, the thing about not caring if I'm hard...” Phil says as the bath slowly starts to cool, and Clint chuckles, kissing the spot where his hairline used to be.

“Come back to bed with me, and I'll take care of you.”

Phil is more than happy to obey, and after they manage to dry off enough not to soak the bed and stagger their way to it. Clint's phone rings and for a fraction of a second Phil wonders which of them cares less as Clint pushes him down onto his back, straddling him and pinning his wrists over his head. “You said you liked being tied up when you tried it.”

“I did,” Phil says.

“Want to try it with me? Just the wrists,” he adds, and Phil smiles, touched by all his efforts to keep this from getting scary.

“I do,” he says, and lies right where Clint put him while he hops up to get what looks like a silk scarf. It's purple, and Clint sees Phil noticing that, and smiles. He straddles Phil again binds his wrists together. He does it very quickly, and the knot is tight. Not too tight, and Clint runs his fingertips between Phil's skin and the silk, a slow caress and a safety check in the same motion. “Beautiful,” he says, and smiles, dropping a tiny kiss onto the tip of Phil's nose. It's sweet and silly and makes him laugh before a soft moan overtakes it as Clint moves down to suck one nipple into his mouth. 

He stays there for a long time, shifting from side to side, suckling and groping like Phil has always done for women, and it would maybe be embarrassing if it didn't feel so good. Clint makes happy little noises and sighs, his hands all over Phil like they're trying to memorize him. Phil just basks in it and keeps reminding himself to open his mouth, to let out the quivering little whimpers and the helpless cries that Clint keeps pulling from him.

“Good boy,” Clint says, raising his head to kiss Phil, who whines and puts his bound arms around Clint's neck. All that lean muscle against him sets him on fire in the way women's soft curves were always supposed to and he groans, opening his legs so Clint can settle between them, rutting along Phil's cock as he gazes down into his eyes. “God, I just want to ride you,” Clint growls, grinding hard along him, “but I don't have the patience, now. I'd have to open myself up for you, and it would just be--” He shudders and bites his lip, losing his train of thought for a moment, “--too slow.” He rocks faster and faster as he speaks, and Phil moans, clutching at him as best he can with bound hands as the friction winds arousal tighter and tighter in his belly until everything lets go at once and he's coming again with a wild, sobbing sound that he has never heard from himself before. Clint bites his neck hard and grinds against his thigh for a moment longer before coming all over Phil's spent and sensitized cock, making him quiver and gasp. 

Clint is nearly silent, and just rests on Phil afterward, catching his breath. He's warm and heavy and Phil sighs, holding him tightly, glad that the binding allows it. Clint sighs in the same contented key, and then kisses the underside of Phil's jaw. “Feelin' all right?” He murmurs, nuzzling him and rasping their new stubble together.

“Better than all right,” Phil says, and Clint chuckles, kissing him and then tensing all over as a woman's voice cuts through the silence.

“Clint?” For one bizarre moment of complete existential vertigo Phil wonders if he's the Other Woman, but then the age and tone register fully. “Clint, honey, you know better than to sleep this late, it'll throw you off!”

Clint stares down at Phil with huge eyes, the expression making him look about fifteen years old. “Shit!” he yelps, and hops up, poking his head out the door. “Hey, Ma! I'm not alone or decent, give us a minute!”

“Congratulations!” she calls back, and Clint laughs. Phil groans miserably and covers his eyes with his bound hands as Clint flops onto the bed next to him to cover his face in kisses and then carefully untie the scarf.

“I forgot we were supposed to go to lunch,” he says, looking sheepish. “You can hide out if you want, but I better go talk to her.” He kisses each of Phil's wrists. “Will you be okay?”

“I'm not made of glass,” Phil says, touched by his concern, and he kisses Clint again. He makes a contented little noise and then pulls away to get wet wipes and a glass of water for Phil, kissing his forehead and then cleaning himself up and throwing on some clothes to go talk to his mother.

The temptation to just hide out is enormous, but Phil is also curious, and to stay back here seems like cowardice. He cleans himself up and puts on last night's clothes, careful to cover the marks on his neck and shoulders, and takes a deep breath and a long look into the mirror to be sure that everything is as right as he can make it before he steps out of the bedroom.

Clint is pouring two glasses of water in the kitchen, and smiles when he sees Phil, picking up a third. His mother is on the couch, and she follows Clint's gaze with a smile of her own. Phil had had a horrible vision of being about the same age as Clint's mother, but of course he isn't. He's fifteen years older than Clint, not thirty-five, and this helps him to smile back at her. She has white hair and little rimless glasses and sort of makes him think of a svelte and modern Mrs. Claus. Her dark eyes twinkle as she holds out her tiny hand for Phil to shake.

“Grace Barton,” she says, “and Clint has told me that you are Phil Coulson and that I am not to embarrass you.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Phil says.

“I like this one,” she says to Clint, and he laughs, coming over to hand both of them their water.

“Good, 'cause I like him too. I'm sorry I forgot, Ma, but will you take a raincheck on lunch? I need to drive Phil home.”

“Darling, I'm just glad to see you with someone you enjoy enough to keep overnight,” she says, and ruffles his hair. He grins at her, and the two of them talk like there's nothing awkward about this at all. And hell, maybe there isn't. They're all adults here. Best of all, Grace has the sense to leave after passing a few more remarks with her son. She kisses him on the cheek on her way out, and he smiles, looking completely unembarrassed and very young.

“Should you and I get lunch?” he asks when she's gone, and Phil sighs, checking the time.

“On the way back, I think.”

“You and your bein' responsible,” Clint grumbles, and Phil laughs, putting the glasses in the sink.

“Sorry, it's my leading vice.”

“And your other vices?” Clint purrs, coming up to wrap his arms around Phil's waist as he turns away from the sink.

“I think you know more about those than I do, right now,” he breathes, trembling all over as Clint rasps his stubble along the curve of his neck. “Oh...”

“God, you're gorgeous,” Clint murmurs, nibbling on the edge of his ear. “Are you sure we have to leave so soon?”

Phil sighs, and gently pushes him away. “Yes, I'm afraid.”

Clint shrugs. “Ah well, it was worth a shot. Just lemme shower and shave and we can get out of here.”

“Thank you,” Phil says, kissing his cheek. Girls were always grateful when he didn't pressure them, and now he's really starting to understand the appeal. Clint beams at him and dashes off, returning quickly. He helps Phil make certain that he has all of his belongings, as well as his kink worksheet and a short list of relevant books and websites. Clint blushes as he enumerates the contents of the envelope he's handing Phil.

“I know, I know, I come with a fuckin' _bibliography_ ," he says, with a crooked smile. They take the same car as last night, despite Clint owning others (only three, in a touching bid not to be extravagant) and Phil settles down in the seat, resting comfortably as Clint drives.

For a while there's just comfortable silence, but at last Phil speaks. “Thank you,” he says, “for being so kind to me.”

“Phil anyone who treats you as less than the fucking prince among men that you are is a piece of shit. Whatever happens with us, please remember that.”

He smiles, watching Clint's beautiful hands on the wheel, and the play of muscles in his forearms. “I will. It's just nice not to feel like a drag. Other guys I've been with always want to do so much so fast that it stops being fun.”

“Well, you are incredibly fucking hot,” Clint says, as though he's commenting on the weather. “You simultaneously hit virgin and daddy buttons, you're an actual goddamn gentleman, and you are, again, incredibly attractive without being so obvious that everyone in your life has spoiled you, making you a dick.”

“And how did you avoid that fate?”

“...Trust me, by the time anybody spoiled me, I knew all about the alternatives.” There's something cold and sad in his voice now, and Phil is sorry that he brought it up. 

Clint laughs when he says so, signaling and passing a slower car in front of them. “Please. It gets a lot darker than that in here.”

“...So I can ask you about the daddy thing?”

Clint glances over with a wry smile. “You can, and I'll even answer 'cause you're just so cute.”

“You did call me that once, last night,” Phil says, and hides his face because he is blushing _again._

“Well. I got daddy issues, and you're a suave and gentle older man. You do the math.”

“...Uh,” Phil squeaks. “I like that idea.”

“I'll bet you do,” Clint says, and Phil can just hear the wide, friendly leer on his face.


	11. Doing The Paperwork

“So,” Clint says, after almost forty minutes on the road, “you want upscale or downscale for lunch? I don't really like the stuff in the middle.”

“Caviar or hotdogs?” Phil asks, amused.

Clint grins. “Yes. Also caviar _on_ hotdogs. Way better than it sounds.”

Phil laughs, and after a little more discussion they end up at a little greasy spoon that Clint knows and clearly loves. To the place's credit, the hot grease smell is fresh, and the tables are all clean. There's a Please Seat Yourself sign, so Phil follows when Clint makes a beeline for one of the rear booths. It's a good spot, a little secluded and bathed in sunlight from the window. A coltish girl comes up with menus and water, and blushes and hides behind her hair when Clint glances over at her. Still, she stands and lists the specials bravely, only fleeing once her task is done.

“Poor kid,” Clint says, eyes following her across the restaurant, “I hope she's okay.”

At this Phil can contain himself no longer, and laughs aloud. The look of blank incomprehension that Clint gives him just makes it funnier, and he has to take a few deep breaths and drink some of his water before he can inform Clint that their waitress likes him.

“You think?”

“I know, Clint. I didn't leave decades of supposed heterosexuality empty-handed,” he says, and Clint smiles, propping his chin on his hands as he studies Phil across the table.

“I just can't imagine it. Not you with a woman, I bet you were a great boyfriend, but I knew I was gay by like, my thirteenth birthday. And didn't that make me act like a little shit for the next couple of years.”

“Only that long?” Phil asks, and Clint laughs.

“Only that long at those levels. I lucked out and found myself a sexy older man when I was fifteen.”

Phil's stomach starts to knot up, and Clint grimaces. “God, no! Sorry, sorry, that was a joke. He was seventeen, it was all legal and consensual.”

“I see,” Phil says, relaxing again and squeezing Clint's hand.

“I mean, he was a college student, but he went early for being a boy genius. It was really cool dating someone with a driver's license.”

Phil chuckles. “I'll bet.”

The food is simple and good and somehow their waitress brings it to them and clears away the plates without dying of embarrassment every time Clint looks at her. Phil can relate, and when he says so in the car afterward, Clint laughs. “As long as I can captivate you, that's what matters,” he says, and Phil rides home in a warm glow.

It's way more of a wrench than it should be to say goodbye to Clint until the dinner date they've set for Wednesday, but it's also good to be home. Phil putters around, watering plants and making sure that everything is just as he left it. He's just sitting down with another cup of coffee when his phone rings. He sighs and answers it, straightening up immediately when it turns out to be the police department. He'll need to come in tomorrow once they've gathered up the owner of the phone and as many of his contacts that fit Phil's description. He thanks them for their efforts and promises to show up bright and early.

After Phil hangs up, he feels jangled and unsettled and stupid for feeling that way. He has been a cop, these things shouldn't get to him the same way. There's a terrible, needy urge to call Clint, but he's probably still on the road and Phil refuses to be part of the problem when it comes to people trying to drive and talk on a cell phone at the same time. Instead, he opens the envelope, which turns out to contain the partially-filled out kink worksheet, a copy of Clint's completed one, the bibliography, a flash drive, and a note in Clint's incongruously neat handwriting:

_The flash drive has PDFs of most of the books, and you know that you can ask me anything. And if you get any brilliant ideas or start having any particularly juicy fantasies, I want to hear all about them._

_–Clint  
xoxoxo_

The Xs and Os make Phil laugh and feel touched at the same time. It's after noon now, so he doesn't feel like a degenerate for fixing himself a drink before settling onto the couch with Clint's worksheet. Just the first section of the thing is kind of alarming, with Animal Play and a few other things Phil can't even identify marked with positive interest. Still, he knows he likes Bondage and Anal Play, and that Sensory Deprivation is something he can take or leave, which matches nicely with Clint's marked mild interest in it. He's also interested in Electrostim, Fisting, Suspension, Impact Play, and something abbreviated as CBT.

There are so many unfamiliar things listed on the worksheets that Phil sets them both aside and opens up his laptop to read the books on the flash drive, which turn out to be as absorbing as they are informative. By the time he looks up, it's evening, and after he makes some dinner he emails Clint to tell him that he's doing his reading and enjoying it very much.

The reply is almost instant:

_Good! There have been a lot of books written about BDSM, but Sturgeon's Law still applies. These are some personal favorites._

_–Clint_

Phil smiles, feeling warm and silly and loved, because everything he has read so far is about what a treasure a person's willingly-given submission is. He's still not sure just how submissive he is, but he knows that he likes to help, and that following orders presents no real trouble. Before he was police was he was military, and he has always enjoyed following orders. Well, orders that weren't stupid, anyway. He shivers, thinking of what Clint's might be.

_So besides the S, which is your favorite letter of BDSM?_

_–Phil_

_Probably D. How's that work for you?_

_–Clint_

_I don't think I'll ever enjoy actually being punished, but the thought of you ordering me around is a pleasing one._

_–Phil_

_I'm not surprised that you'd rather be my good boy than be punished. It's cute._

_–Clint_

Phil blushes, and types out a reply.

_Thanks, I think._

_–Phil._

Clint's response pops up a minute later:

_It's no bad thing to be cute._

_–Clint_

Phil grins, typing:

_Is that why you've got Crossdressing checked?_

_–Phil_

_That is exactly why. ;)_

_–Clint_

_If it goes both ways, I demand a decent wig._

_–Phil_

_Of course._

_\--Clint_

They talk for a while longer before Phil checks the time and sighs.

_I have to get some sleep before trying to pick my assailants out of a lineup tomorrow. Really, if I do find them they'll probably press charges of their own. Goodnight, Clint. <3_

_–Phil_

Phil is not particularly given to emoticons, but he feels like he deserves one after not drawing a heart on his morning note to Clint.

_I'd like to see the fuckers try. My attack lawyers are your attack lawyers. Sleep well. <333_

_\--Clint_

Surprisingly enough, Phil does sleep well, and in the morning Pepper arrives to go with him to the station and metaphorically if not literally hold his hand. She's busier than ever these days, and Phil is delighted to see her even on an errand such as this. She drives, both of them sipping overpriced designer coffee. Unless Phil gets arrested on an assault charge of his own, they're going out for lunch after this. If he does, Pepper will apprise everyone of the situation, including her own attack lawyers. It's a comforting feeling.

For all Phil's worries about his powers of drunken recall, one of them is absolutely here. He doesn't know any of the others from Adam, but there's a tall, skinny towhead who looks heartbreakingly young under the fluorescents. Phil remembers the height and the hair, and those long-fingered hands grabbing his upper arms. After Phil identifies him, he's free to go. It's a weird sort of feeling, but spending the rest of the day with Pepper helps. Lunch segues into paperwork at Pepper's apartment, and when they look up and realize that it's probably time to eat dinner, Pepper calls Tony to join them.

Any interaction with Tony is always an interesting experience. The man has a mind like a hummingbird, and talking to him for too long can make Phil feel slightly dizzy, with all the jumps in topic and assumed knowledge of theoretical physics. He is also an unrepentant boozehound, and no matter what Phil tells himself ahead of time, he never stands up from a dinner with Tony completely sober.


	12. The One Where Phil Is Reporting Too Hard To Contact Clint, Who Gets Insecure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: discussion of kidnapping. The kid is one of the people discussing it, having been found safe, but still.

Phil will have to blame the booze for the email he sends to Clint after doing more research:

_All right, I've seen enough. It was nice knowing you._

_\--Phil_

Attached is a jpeg of some poor bastard's shaved balls held in a bizarre contraption and stuck full of enough needles to shame a pincushion. Still drunk at two am, this strikes Phil as hilarious. When he wakes up slightly hungover the next morning and finds that he actually sent it, he has the immediate impulse to call Clint to let him know that it's just a lame joke. And then Nick calls him to tell him to get the fuck into work. The cops have gotten what might be a good tip on Raina Smythe, who went missing three days ago, and Phil is the best available staffer for the crime beat. Of course, he forgets all about emailing Clint. He barely has time to suck down his coffee and comb his hair before he's running out the door.

Phil's car is no good for the kind of back roads they'll be traversing, so he winds up riding with Officer Allen of the State Troopers, a good-looking kid with strawberry blonde hair and eyes that are almost yellow. The hair is probably longer than regulation, and his freckled face is better suited to a smile than the set, determined look he's wearing now.

“I hear you used to do this job,” he says, staring out through the windshield at the one-lane road ahead. He drives fast enough to be scary, but seems competent and focused enough that Phil is only nervous rather than mortally terrified.

“I was city, not state,” Phil says, hanging onto the grab handle and wishing it wasn't such a goddamned beautiful day.

“Still,” Allen says. “You ever see any dead kids?”

“Occasionally.” Phil hasn't seen very many, but no non-zero number is acceptable and they both know it. “They say you get used to it, but on a raw, emotional level, they're lying.”

“I figured.”

They don't find out how Allen would take it today, because little Raina Smythe is alive and well. Her hair is a fucking mess rather than the two afro puffs she was wearing when she disappeared, and her nice little yellow tutu is long gone, but she still has her Spongebob shirt, tattered black leggings, and jelly shoes on her tiny feet. Now Phil is fucking _ecstatic_ that it's such a nice day. Raina is up in a big tree, looking warily down at an elderly white lady and her yapping Maltese.

“See?” she's calling as they drive up, “I told you I called the police!”

Theirs is the first car to get there, and Allen hops out, Phil right behind him. “Mrs. Marion Burn?”

“Yes, sir,” she says, and shows him a non-driver state ID. “We came out here on our little walk, and there she was. Poor thing, I'm sure she's worried I'm another kidnapper. Hush, Evita,” she adds, gathering her dog into her skinny arms. For a blue-eyed miracle the thing actually shuts up, and Phil looks at her with increased respect before following Allen up to the tree.

“Good morning, Miss Smythe,” Allen says, smiling up at the little girl. “We sure are happy to see you all right.”

“Are you real police?” she asks. She's not four yet, but her gaze is like a laser beam.

“I'm real police,” Allen says, and shows her his badge. She starts climbing down and then falters. Allen shinnies right up to get her and makes his way down again. It's difficult with a nearly-four-year-old in his arms, and Phil hears him say, “Can I pass you to Officer Drake?” Before he even realizes that the undersized, black-haired kid has even sidled up next to him. He seems cold, but not creepy, and Raina nods and reaches for him. He smiles and cuddles her a little, those cold grey eyes suddenly full of light. Allen scrambles down the tree, beaming and giving Drake a look that makes Phil certain that if they aren't an item, Allen wants them to be.

Phil has run down bad tips and good tips to bad news in all three of his careers. Every time something like this turns out all right Phil feels jangled and high, upset but not unhappy, and today is no exception. He's very glad to be on a ride-along, because his hands are shaking. Raina has apparently adopted Drake, and is riding with him.

“You okay?” Allen asks at a stoplight.

“Just adrenaline. I'm glad you can drive.”

“Well, y'know. Younger and in active service.”

“It's true, being a reporter is a little less insane. Every time one line gets to be too much for me, I pick up another.”

“I've heard of worse strategies,” Allen says, taking a left turn.

“Besides, I was still soft in the head from a stupidly nice first date.”

“Oh?” Allen says.

He sounds genuinely happy for Phil, and so young and confidential that Phil hears himself asking, “So, are you and Drake a thing?”

That open, young quality shuts down immediately. “I'm not sure that's any of your business.”

“Sorry, sorry! I just...” Phil grimaces. “I'm one of those late bloomers. Best first date of my life was the first one with a man.”

“...Oh. Oh, well. That makes it different. We're, uh... look, is this off the record?”

“So off,” Phil says. “I know when a conversation is personal.”

Allen smiles. “Yeah, I think you do. Drake and I would be engaged or married, but as long as three people can't get married, none of us want to feel left out.”

“...Oh.” Phil says. “Wow. Maybe you should wait and see if any of you has big medical bills, and that one can marry whichever of the others has the best benefits.”

Allen laughs, and pulls into the station. The Smythes are already there, forming a ball of love around their daughter, who is wolfing down a peanut butter sandwich. Phil gives them time. He pokes around the station and talks to the detectives for a bit. When Raina decides to tell her story, Phil is graciously allowed to listen in because he knows a guy. The department has offered her a female officer to talk to, but she wants Drake and Allen and is willing to tolerate Phil. Now that her parents are with her, Raina seems perfectly comfortable, and tells her story bravely. She hides her face in her mother's braids for a moment when she describes the man telling her that her mama was sick and that he was supposed to bring her to the hospital, and her voice cracks on the part where he told her to shut up as they passed the hospital, but any time they offer her a break, she just shakes her head and keeps going.

After seeing that he wasn't taking her to the hospital, Raina had, 'kicked and screamed and made a huge fuss. Look for a big big big white man with bites all on his arms. I made him bleed,” she adds, sounding proud, and it's all Phil can do not to smile. The battle had ended with him giving her a shot that made her go right to sleep. She had woken up in a nasty basement that was dark and scary and there was nothing to do or look at. She had wanted her mama and cried for a long time, but finally she had seen a little hole in the wall. She had had to move a lot of heavy boxes to climb up to it, and she had barely fit into it, but it had led her outside. There had been nothing but fields, and she had found some tall green grass to walk in. “Nobody could see me,” she says, gesturing over her head. “I stayed in the green for a long, long time,” she says. “But then I was so hungry I had to leave and I didn't know where I was and then the lady saw me and I climbed up the tree.”

Through all of this, her mother has been holding her close and petting her, and her father has his arm around them both, his eyes full of tears. “I'm still hungry, Mama,” Raina says, and Phil reaches into an inner pocket and pulls out his emergency granola bar. It's one of the more healthy and less palatable types, but Raina gobbles it down and thanks him nicely when her mother prompts her. Phil smiles at her, and she smiles back, reaching out and patting his hand with one of her tiny, dark-brown ones.

“If we talk to the press at all,” Mr. Smythe says, “we'd prefer it to be you, because you were there.”

With all of this going on, it's very understandable that Phil doesn't even think about contacting Clint until after eleven at night. A glance at the clock makes him remember all at once, and he groans, saving his nearly-completed article and opening his email. He groans again when he sees three successive messages from Clint.

_Yikes, that's intense! Don't worry about your balls, daddy, I won't hurt them. *snicker*_

_–Clint_

This first one is timestamped 9:00 am, and there isn't another until 1:45 pm:

_You were kidding, right? I've known like, one guy who was into anything that extreme, and it was a little much for me, honestly. I had a good time, but the top-drop was awful. And I made him bleed once when I didn't mean to. He was into it, but it scared the piss out of me._

_–Clint_

The last one is from an hour ago:

Shit. I scared you, didn't I? I'm so fucking sorry, oh god. T_T Please, call me when you see this.

–Clint

Phil does some cursing of his own, and scrambles for his phone. Clint answers on the first ring, and he sounds tense and miserable. “Clint, I'm sorry! It's okay!”

“...Really?” The note of hope in his voice makes him sound about half his age, and Phil is overcome with the urge to wrap him in a blanket and give him cocoa with as many marshmallows as will fit in the cup. He says so, and Clint laughs. “Thank god, man! What happened, was there some kind of huge scoop?”

“Better than that! Raina Smythe is alive and well. I was there when they found her.”

“Yeah, I am a shitload less important than that. The kid's really okay?”

“Fright, minor bruising, one big but not toxic dose of Ativan, and a day or two without food. So yeah, cause for high fives and a round of shots in a situation like this. We're pretty sure it's some kind of baby-selling thing.”

“Fucking assholes.” Clint's voice is a little ragged. “Look, can I come over? I mean, I kinda feel like a dick when it doesn't even compare, but I spent the whole day thinking you were scared and that I had treated it like a joke.”

“Hey,” Phil says softly, “That's bad enough. And sure, you can come over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not tagging them because it's not a real crossover, but yes, that is some Bart/Tim/Kon in the background of this Marvel fic because I felt like it.


	13. Lasagna And Blindfolds

Clint must drive fast, because he shows up in forty-five minutes, complete with an aluminum tray of lasagna from somewhere Phil probably can't afford. It smells like someone's Italian grandma made it, and as they eat it straight from the pan, snuggled together on the couch, Clint tells him that an Italian grandmother did make it, by a secret family recipe.

“Their restaurant is fucking great. I helped them get started, so they're willing to give me after-hours lasagna when I've had a trying day.”

“Again,” Phil says, adjusting what's left in his half of the pan, “I really am sorry for my part in that.”

Clint just shakes his head. “I'm just so glad you were actually joking! That'd be a fucked up way to stop seeing somebody.”

“It's not even that good a joke,” Phil says, patting Clint's hand.

“I dunno, it's kind of funny,” Clint says, smiling fondly at him. There's still a tiny bit of fear in his eyes, and Phil shifts closer, leaning on him as he eats the last few forkfuls that he can hold.

“Poor Clint. I promise to tell you if you scare me, and to remember that you didn't mean to.”

“Good,” he says, and he actually sounds a little choked up. Phil sets the pan aside and hugs Clint tightly, blushing as he pulls him into his lap. Even after realizing that he has been gay this whole time, Phil had been expecting to be the one with the other guy in his lap, should such a conjunction occur. But here he is, slightly curled and cuddled close like a girl. Not that there's anything wrong with being girly, a certainty that helps him to relax into Clint's hold.

They stay that way for a long while, Clint just pressing his face to Phil's shoulder and breathing him in. Phil has always liked to cuddle, but there's something different about this. He always gets kind of syrupy and heavy when someone holds him, but this time there's a deep, deep contentment that's all about helping Clint, maybe serving him. The idea makes Phil shiver, and Clint's arms tighten around him.

“Really glad I didn't scare you away,” Clint murmurs into his ear, lips just brushing the outer rim of it, and Phil whines.

“I trust you,” he says softly, and Clint actually groans, nuzzling into the side of Phil's neck.

“You don't know what it does to me to hear you say that,” he whispers, and gently bites. 

Phil's heart pounds and he clutches at Clint's arms, feeling his half-hard cock beneath him. “I-I think I have some idea,” he whispers back, and Clint laughs.

“Good. Want to help me do something about that?”

“God, yes,” Phil says, and forces himself to stand up so that Clint can lead him into his own bedroom. He has a sudden weird surge of self-consciousness, since he has a framed vintage Captain America poster hanging over his bed, which is covered with an actual patchwork quilt made by loving hands at home. His grandmother's, to be specific. 

Clint grins, and kisses Phil. “You are fucking adorkable, daddy.”

“So women have told me,” he admits, and Clint laughs, pulling the quilt off the bed and folding it. “I figure you don't want to get anything on this,” he says, and Phil can feel himself blush. 

“I don't,” he agrees, and steps in to help. 

“You don't have to,” Clint says, as Phil takes two corners, and it's Phil's turn to laugh at his naivete. 

“Yes, I do,” he says, getting the edges perfectly even. “If it's not properly folded I won't be able to relax, because I am fucking deranged.”

“I'll keep that in mind. You wanna hang up your clothes?”

Phil chuckles. “Mine can I can deal with crumpling. Yours, however...”

Clint smiles. “Then please, take care of it for me.”

Phil takes a moment to process that, and then kneels at Clint's feet, pushing up one leg of his jeans to unlace his boot. Clint swallows audibly, and when Phil glances up at him, he looks stunned. Phil smiles, and returns to his task, getting both boots and socks off before standing up on his knees to pull Clint's jeans down. He takes a moment to nuzzle him through his underwear and then drags it down as well, spotting Clint as he steps out of them.

“What about your shirts?” He asks, sliding his hands just under the hem of Clint's t-shirt, feeling the ribbed fabric of an undershirt.

“Well, I was going to ask to tie your hands again,” he says, smiling at the way it makes Phil shudder. “If you want that, I can go shirtless.”

“I want that,” Phil says, and Clint beams, giving him a hand up and then raising his arms so that Phil can strip both layers off at once. He gives him a quick kiss, but lets him pull away to neatly drape the clothes over the back of a chair. He's still wearing his own, a battered old pair of slacks and a frayed NYU sweatshirt. He removes them without art or even grace, suddenly self-conscious with Clint's eyes on him.

“God, you're gorgeous,” he says, like he's reading Phil's thoughts. “Come to me.”

Phil feels the urge to drop to his knees and crawl again, but he's too shy, and walks to Clint instead, letting him gather him in against his chest and sighing, clinging for a long moment. Clint just holds him until he's calmer, and then gently pushes him onto his back on the bed, getting his undershirt from the chair and using it to bind Phil's hands to the headboard. He squirms and blushes as Clint makes sure that it isn't too tight, and looks away when Clint gazes down at him.

“You said you've tried being blindfolded,” Clint says, “and you seem very shy tonight. Would it help if you couldn't see me?”

“I don't know if I want to be helped,” Phil says softly, risking a look up, “but I'd like to try that with you.”

“Always such a sweetheart,” Clint coos, and goes to Phil's dresser, coming back with one of his own undershirts. “This should work, right? I like it when things match.”

“Th-that'll work fine,” Phil says, and then whines as Clint twists it around his head. He can still see light through it, but everything is just a white blur. Clint's hands are cupping his face, helping to ground him.

“Remember, sugar, I'm right here,” he says softly

“Were you planning on leaving?”

He chuckles. “Well, if you're okay I'm gonna to step out and fix us a drink.”

“I think I'm okay. Kiss me first?”

“Always,” Clint says, kissing him deeply and lingering for a long moment before getting up and going out into the kitchen. Phil feels exposed and ridiculous and that's part of why he's rock hard by the time Clint comes back. “I'm so fucking lucky,” Clint says quietly, and Phil feels his weight denting the mattress. He pauses, and then Phil can just barely hear him swallow. “You want some of this?”

“Yes, please,” Phil says, not even caring what it is. A moment later Clint is propping up his head with one hand, the other bringing the cool rim of a glass to his mouth. Clint is very careful not to tilt the glass too fast, and Phil gets a long, slow sip of something very sweet. It's creamy but clearly alcoholic, with a strange flavor that makes him remember that he does, in fact, own a bottle of Kahlua. “What is that?” He asks when Clint pulls the glass away, and Clint chuckles.

“It's a Black Cow. Coke, Kahlua, and half and half. Or milk, anyway.”

“Sorry, but you know I take my coffee black.”

He chuckles. “I know.” He takes another sip, and offers Phil the glass again. As he drinks, Clint says, “Is it all right if I get you messy?”

“Just try not to completely destroy the sheets, okay?”

“Okay,” Phil says softly, and then gasps as Clint pours cool liquid onto his chest. There's the small sound of him setting the glass on the nightstand, and his mouth is on Phil, licking and sucking his skin clean and it's so fucking good and so well-contained that Phil relaxes, tipping his head back as he moans. Clint shudders and gently bites one nipple, making Phil cry out. His eyes roll back and when he can think again, he's glad for the blindfold. Clint chuckles, straddling him and pouring more of the drink onto him. It's cool and silky and Clint doesn't really give Phil a chance to worry. He's so careful with it, darting his head down to lap up the one drop that tries to escape down Phil's side. He fills the hollow between Phil's collarbones and drinks from there, cleaning Phil's skin all the way down to his chest again, sucking one nipple and pinching the other and making Phil wonder if he's going to come just from this again, and how disappointed he will or won't be if he does.


	14. Power Bottom

Phil loses track of time, just melting back into the mattress and reacting as Clint takes most of their drink off of Phil's skin. At last he stops, though, and his hand comes to cradle the back of Phil's head again. “Here, your mouth is probably dry.” It is, since it's been hanging open as Phil pants and moans, and he's glad to take the swig that remains. He takes a moment to catch his breath, and Phil covers his face in kisses, nuzzling him and telling him what a good boy he is.

“Do you think you can take a little pain for me, daddy?” He whispers, and Phil shivers, a little afraid but more turned on.

“N-not too much,” he says softly.

“Not too much,” Clint says, kissing his cheek and sliding his hands up Phil's arms to untie the shirt. Phil feels a little bereft at not being bound anymore, but it's nice to have Clint rub his wrists and then put a bracelet of kisses around each one before rolling him onto his belly. “You said you felt all right about spanking.”

“I do,” he says. “Not too hard at first, though, okay?”

“Of course not,” Clint says softly, rubbing his back. “Up on your knees a little. Yeah, there you go.”

Phil feels ridiculous with his ass in the air, but then Clint is rubbing one gentle hand over it and he can't think about much else. He clutches at the pillow and whines at Clint's first strike, almost insultingly soft. “Okay, I can take _that_ ,” he says, and Clint chuckles, giving him a harder smack on the other side.

“I'm just warming you up.”

The next one stings a little, and the ones after that sting a lot, in a way that's like an itch, almost. Being slapped harder is the only thing that will help, and when he says so, Clint moans, hitting him hard, right where his thigh joins his ass, and Phil cries out. He arches his back even more, struggling to offer himself to Clint even more than he already is, each impact going straight to his cock. It's not as if it doesn't hurt, but it hurts in a way that makes Phil think that maybe he is a masochist. Clint is panting softly, his left hand resting on Phil's back as the other one strikes his ass again and again, switching sides to keep the build of tingling, aching, and heat even. When he stops, Phil moans, his thighs shaking and his cock dripping onto the sheet.

“Mm, looks like we've made a mess after all,” Clint purrs, and Phil whines, flushing all over. “Fucking perfect. How do you feel?”

“Goood,” Phil informs him, and Clint crawls up to kiss his shoulder.

“Such a good boy for me. Remember what I said last time?” And Phil is feeling gloriously slow and stupid, so he doesn't. He just shakes his head, and Clint chuckles.

“That I wanted to ride you. Wanted to feel you inside me.” Phil lets out a strangled squeak, feeling for Clint and then clinging to him and reminding himself not to rut against him, to fucking last. It's almost comforting, something he remembers from sex with women that actually applies here. Clint cuddles him for a while and then shifts him onto his back again. “You want to fuck me, daddy? I need you to tell me.”

“Please,” Phil whimpers, “please! And... And can we take the blindfold off? I want to see you.”

“Sure,” Clint says, and takes it off, smiling as Phil blinks, squints, and adjusts. He can see Clint above him now, flushed and bright-eyed and happy. “Hey,” he says, and Phil grins. “Do you have condoms? I don't because I didn't want to be presumptuous, and don't I feel silly now.”

“Medicine cabinet,” Phil says, and Clint chuckles. 

“Will you be all right if I leave you to go get them?” 

And normally the question would just be silly, but now Phil whimpers and shakes his head. Clint kisses him and takes his hand, and they walk to the bathroom to get condoms as a team. He bought them ages ago, but the expiration date is still pretty far away. Clint takes three, and once they're back in the bedroom he ties Phil to the headboard again. It's comforting, somehow. It makes him feel all right with feeling out of control. Clint kisses him for a long moment, stroking his hair and telling him again and again how good he is before sitting up and lubing the inside of a condom and rolling it down onto Phil. The slight deadening of sensation is welcome now. It makes Phil feel like he might last a whole five minutes. He closes his eyes and just keeps breathing, looking up when Clint straddles him again, smiling down at him.

“Such a good boy for me,” he says softly, and slicks three fingers with lube, reaching back and panting softly as he opens himself up. Being able to look but not touch is driving Phil crazy. He doesn't know which he wants to watch more, the play of muscles in Clint's arm and the way his cock twitches as he works his fingers deeper and deeper into his ass, or his face, suffused with shameless bliss. He settles for glancing between the two and lightly tugging at the knotted undershirt holding him to the bed. He doesn't actually want to get free, but he can't help struggling. 

When Clint asks for a color, Phil gasps, “Green! I don't really want to get loose, I just can't- can't stay still.”

Clint whines, biting his lip and pushing all three fingers into himself again, grinding as deep as he can reach. “Fuck...” he breathes, opening his eyes again and smiling down at Phil, flushed and dark-eyed and beautiful. “You ready?”

“Please, sir,” Phil whimpers, and Clint moans, leaning down to kiss him roughly before sitting back and guiding Phil's slick cock to his hole. Phil struggles to keep his eyes open as he shakes and moans, wanting to see the look on Clint's face as his body slowly lets Phil in, but so utterly wrecked by Clint's tight, hot grip.

“God, you're so fucking thick,” Clint moans, hands sliding up Phil's chest to pinch his nipples, making his eyes roll back as he cries out. “Fuck, look at you,” Clint whispers, leaning down for another kiss. “Daddy, you feel so good,” he mumbles against Phil's mouth, nibbling at the corner and finally settling back and swallowing up the last of Phil's cock. He rides Phil slow and deep at first, and then faster and faster, panting with effort as he fucks himself hard, his skin gleaming with sweat. Phil just stares up at him, helpless to do much else. He has never seen anything more beautiful in his life, and feels weirdly like crying. He isn't unhappy, though, and hastens to say that when Clint slows a little, asking for a color again.

“Green,” Phil gasps, “please sir, please use me.”

“Fuck, daddy,” he says softly, kissing Phil again, slow and deep just like like rhythm of his hips, “you're amazing,” he breathes, biting Phil's lip and clenching hard around him, once and then again, shifting slightly from side to side and then fucking himself harder again. Phil whimpers that he can't last, and Clint just grins at him. “Then don't, sugar, I want you to come inside me.”

Phil cries out, shaking as Clint speeds up, eyes sparkling as much with mischief as with lust. He's panting but looks like he could go forever, all of his archer's focus on making Phil come. Never one to be rude, Phil obliges him within the next ninety seconds or so, crying out in a way he has never heard himself do before, bucking and struggling under Clint without enough brainpower to worry about throwing him off. His heart is pounding and he can't stop moving, body spasming to thrust up and up and up into Clint. He feels like the fabric around his wrists is all that's keeping him from shaking apart. His vision is a swirl of shapeless colors for a few seconds before it clears enough for him to see Clint sliding off to crawl up and grab the bars over Phil's head as he ruts along his chest. Every incidental touch of the head of his cock to Phil's nipples makes Phil gasp and whine, and Clint groans, looking shattered as he finally streaks Phil's skin with white, hanging on the bars as his sides heave with his rapid breath. Phil has never seen anything so beautiful.

Phil dozes for a bit, feeling syrupy and slow as Clint cleans him up and wipes the worst of the mess off of the sheets. It seems like far too long before he crawls in beside Phil again, and he clings tightly, relaxing as Clint holds him close and rubs his back, telling him over and over how good he is, how sweet.


	15. Breakfast Again (Also Aftercare)

“Hey,” Clint is murmuring into Phil's ear. “Hey, sweetheart.” He bites the edge gently, and that shocks Phil into actual wakefulness. He feels the way he used to when he was young and would wake up after a truly crazy night to find himself still drunk, and whimpers a little, wrapping himself around Clint. “I gotta go, daddy, but not right this second.” He kisses Phil's forehead, rubbing his back. “How do you feel?”

“...Kinda drunk? And needy. Really needy,” he mumbles, hiding his face in Clint's shoulder.

“I'm not gonna leave until you feel less needy,” he says, and Phil shivers. “I wanna stick around longer than that, but they've moved this fucking morning meeting that I was gonna have to drag ass to to tomorrow. Well, technically it's this morning, now. Ugh.”

Phil chuckles. “Poor baby.” He hugs Clint, nuzzling into his chest. “What time is it?”

“About half-past one. I'm supposed to be there at eight.”

“So you don't really have to leave until seven.”

“If had been smart enough to bring a change of clothes, I wouldn't.” Clint sighs.

“Mm. Can you borrow something of mine?”

“You know... I guess we are about the same height...”

“I think you can handle baggy clothes for one meeting.”

“It's what the bastards get for being morning people,” Clint says, and Phil chuckles. He holds onto Clint for a long time, the strength of his arms and the slow beat of his heart so terribly necessary right now. Clint seems to sense the edge of terror in Phil's need, and talks to him soothingly, rubbing his back and telling him again and again what a good boy he is, how sweet. Clint yawns, so tired but so determined to take care of Phil that it makes his chest hurt.

At long last Clint can't keep his eyes open any longer, and Phil follows him down, Clint's slow breathing lulling him into sleep. Clint is still out when Phil wakes up again at four, and he smiles, feeling much less needy and pathetic. He's even capable of getting up to pee, even if it's a slow and lazy process. Having already torn himself away from Clint, Phil supposes that he might as well do something productive, pulling on a bathrobe and assembling some meeting-ready outfits that might fit Clint. At least they're almost the same height.

By the time Phil is satisfied with the available selection, it's after five and he feels like he should start some coffee. He keeps forgetting to pick up any kind of cocoa, but his mother's hot chocolate recipe is good enough for anyone, and he makes a small pot for Clint, humming to himself as the stirs the ingredients together and leaves it almost entirely off the lowest burner, so it it will heat as gently as possible.

By the time Clint comes shuffling in wearing Phil's over-sized Army Rangers t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, Phil is on his second cup of coffee and has started working on the crossword puzzle, reading glasses propped on the end of his nose. He looks up and Clint beams at him.

“Oh my fucking god you're so _cute_!”

“Good morning to you, too,” Phil says, laughing as Clint hugs him from behind, sighing happily against Phil's balding head.

“Fucking _adorable_.”

“There's cocoa on the stove,” Phil says, and that just makes Clint squeal quietly and hug him again. It's somewhere between funny and touching, and Phil isn't sure if he's relieved or disappointed when Clint lets go at last to actually drink the cocoa.

“You're the cute one,” Phil tells him, as Clint holds his mug in both hands and takes a tiny, experimental sip.

“We're both cute, then. So there.” He takes another sip. “Wow, this is really fucking good.”

“It's a Coulson family recipe,” Phil says, and Clint smiles, settling beside him.

“I can't believe you're doing the actual physical paper crossword.”

“You younguns and your FaceSpace and MyBook and your hula hoops and your fax machines,” Phil grumbles, and Clint laughs, kissing his cheek.

“You can't fool me, you're a reporter, you have to be able to work the newfangled machinery.”

“Sometimes, when the wind is right. What's an eight-letter word for 'beside?'”

They hit on 'adjacent' before Clint has finished his cocoa, and Phil is done with most of the horizontal clues by the time Clint has drained a second cup and gone to look at his clothing options. Phil can't help but feel a little insecure just because he's dressing Clint Barton, but soon Clint is back, grinning at him and doing a small twirl.

“Well?” And it should look sloppy, Clint wearing the suit Phil reserves for holiday weight gain, but instead there's something breezy about it, like it's supposed to fit like this.

“I don't know how you're pulling it off,” Phil says, “but my fat suit looks good on you.” Clint laughs, coming over to sit on Phil's lap, wedging himself between Phil and the crossword the same way a cat does. Phil chuckles and nuzzles his hair, reaching around him to fill in another clue.

They can't cuddle and gently bicker about the crossword forever, of course. Clint has places to go and things to do and is one of those people who believes that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. He makes them a pair of messy and delicious egg sandwiches, and fusses over Phil, making sure that he eats all of his and that he's okay and doesn't need Clint to stay longer. In the end Phil practically has to push Clint out the door, and almost gives up and hauls him back in when their last kiss is so good it makes him weak in the knees.

In the quiet afterward, Phil shivers, and takes a moment to collect himself before pouring another cup of coffee and trying to get his brain in line for work. He has a few articles to polish up, he needs to interview the Smythes again, and someone is going to have to handle the Xavier Foundation Gala this weekend. Phil has been able to dodge it for the last three years, but he knows he can't hold out forever.

After Phil has gotten dressed and gotten his things in order, it's still not even eight yet, and Nick has started bitching when Phil shows up more than an hour early. On cue, his phone rings. 

He chuckles, answering it. “Yes?”

“Good morning, dear,” his mother says in her soft, crackly voice. “It's not too early, is it?”

Phil smiles and pulls up a chair, settling in. “No, Mom. How are you?”

“I'm pretty well, darling. My arthritis is better, and your sister has been cooking for me while I chase your niece around. You know how that keeps a person young.”

Phil chuckles. “I guess it does.”

“I'm really calling you about your cousin Maria, though.”

“Oh?” Phil is the baby of his family, so Maria is the closest thing he has ever had to a little sister. “Is she all right?”

“It's nothing bad at all, dear, but she's busy and so she left it to me to call you. Your friend Tony is paying her enough to get a decent hotel, but she knows you have room for her and she hasn't seen you in far too long.”

Working at the same paper as his cousin had been a lot of fun, but while she's a good journalist, she's a _great_ head of security. She had had to move, and that had been a wrench, and Tony has enemies, so Phil worries a lot, but watching her grow stronger and more assured has been totally worth it. Phil grins. “Mi casa is her casa, Mom. Why is he sending her down here?”

“Someone has to represent the company at the Xavier gala, because one of the awards is related to a charity that runs on more of Tony's money than Xavier's. She'll be presenting it.”

“Well, Tony could do a lot worse, if he's dodging it and couldn't send Pepper.”

“That's what I said,” she says, and then gives him Maria's planned arrival time before going on to tell him all about little Miriam's adorable dancing and other things that make him almost late for work. This is probably why he gets nailed with the Xavier gala this year, but he just shrugs.

“My cousin has to be there, so I probably would have ended up attending for moral support anyway,” Phil says.

Nick snorts. “So it works out, then. You gonna rent a tux?”

That question is part of why no one ever wants this assignment. The people who show up are so rich that even the ones who aren't assholes are like aliens. Well, except when Tony is there, but Tony is fucking insane, which isn't much of an improvement. The atmosphere is oppressively posh, there are lots of very long speeches about Serious Issues, and there isn't enough champagne to get drunk, to say nothing of the high risk of not knowing how to eat things 'correctly.' Phil actually feels selfish for dodging it, since he can at least function in such an environment. He's actually more worried about dressing for his date with Clint tomorrow night. Once again, at least with a 'black tie or do your best, plebian' event, he knows the rules.


	16. The Date Where Phil Gets Nervous

It turns out that Tony is actually doing something for Stark Industries and not just dodging the Xavier gala, but he has a good ninety minutes in his hotel room to act as Phil's fashion consultant via webcam while Pepper is in a meeting. He's pretty irked that Phil won't give him the guy's name, but declares that he can work it out of him later.

“Or trade Pepper for sexual favors. I'm good at sexual favors.”

Phil laughs. “I'm sure you are. Which shirt?”

“Definitely the blue one, and if you button it all the way up you're so uninvited to my birthday party.”

Phil laughs. “Come on, I don't do that if I'm not wearing a tie, give me some credit.”

“Okay, but we're still talking top three. If it's just the one I will be so irate. Even more irate that I don't know Mystery Guy's name.”

Phil rolls his eyes even as he starts buttoning up the shirt. “I'll tell you later. You know what a sad old queer virgin I am, I'm nervous enough without having to hope Pepper stops you from looking up every single piece of digital information on the guy.”

“Point,” Tony says. “At least I know you have decent shoes.”

Phil's shoes are far more than decent, and he feels both very gay and very silly to be so comforted by the fact as he drives to his rendezvous. Much like the first date, it's a place Phil wouldn't even try to afford without a compelling reason. Then again, his compelling reason is the one paying. He takes a deep breath, checks himself in the rearview mirror in a way that takes him back to his first-ever date at the age of sixteen, and then steps out and walks across the parking lot. It feels like it's taking more courage than it should, but he makes it up to the door and then into the bar, where Clint said to meet him before dinner.

Phil has worried about having to search for Clint, but it's early enough that he's one of the only people sitting at the bar. He's wearing all black, with heavy boots and a leather jacket. He looks like some kind of 1950s warning against the evils of homosexuality. The kind of warning that always backfires. The fact that he's nursing a tiny glass of some kind of pink wine sort of adds to the effect, and makes Phil smile as he slides onto the bar stool next to him.

Clint smiles back. “Hey. You want some gay-ass pink Moscato?”

“Maybe a sip,” Phil says, “I don't have your sweet tooth.” Clint hands it over without a word, and the way he watches Phil's lips on the rim of the glass makes him blush. The wine is very sweet, but in a sharp, honeyed way that Phil finds himself enjoying as he considers the taste. “Then again...” he says, and Clint grins at him.

“C'mon, join me.”

Soon Phil has his own tiny, stereotypical glass of pink wine, and sips it as Clint explains that he has reserved a dining room so they can talk privately. “We don't have to use it,” he adds, “but it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Phil blushes again. “It still sounds good to me. I know the bartender will keep it to himself if he's judging us, but...”

Clint chuckles. “Exactly. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah. I kind of forgot lunch.”

“Well, we can't be having that,” Clint says, and after they finish their wine he leads the way to their reserved room, which is almost pointlessly nice, with a fucking crystal chandelier over the table and a vase of white roses. “I know,” he says, “it's a bit much. But the food is great.”

Phil chuckles, opening his menu and helping Clint to arrange their dinner. There are naturally multiple courses at a place like this, and they start with oysters on the half shell, arranged prettily on their little bed of ice. Phil has always been fond of them, and eats his half of the plate slowly, savoring the slippery, sea-salt taste and feel of them. He opens his eyes after downing the last one and blushes at the way Clint is watching him.

“Okay,” Clint says softly, “now I get how you could've ever thought you were straight.”

Phil cocks his head, setting the empty shell back in the ice. “You do?”

“You make me almost wish that I had a pussy, just so I could watch you eat it.”

Phil does his best not to choke on his own spit, his face so hot that it must be bright red. “That always was my favorite,” he admits quietly, trying not to squirm in his chair.

Clint grins, propping his chin on his hands. “Of course it was. God, I'm so lucky you've realized you're into men.”

“...I have a feeling that meeting you would've made me realize it even I hadn't before,” Phil mutters, staring down at the oysters before making himself look up. 

Clint's smile softens and he looks almost shy, so cute that Phil is very glad he managed to force his gaze back up in time to see it. “Really?”

“Really,” Phil says, and hopes that he doesn't look as flustered as he feels when the waiter returns with the rest of their meal. A significant portion of it is unfamiliar to Phil, and he picks at things slowly while Clint softly asks for his opinion on each dish. He seems fascinated by watching Phil eat, and it's somewhere between awkward, hot, and touching. He does his best to just talk over the food with Clint like a normal, grown human being, but for some reason it's hard, and as Clint stares into his eyes, the awkwardness starts to fade into the background. Phil feels like his skin is too small, and there's a weird, quivery sensation in his midsection. It's not sickly at all, just very strange.

“Phil?” Clint murmurs, and Phil trembles.

“I just... I feel kind of odd,” he says, and can feel himself blushing yet again. 

Clint looks like he's torn between being worried and being intrigued. “Good odd or bad?”

“Floaty odd.”

Clint studies him for a moment, and then pushes back a little from the table. “Come around to my side,” he says, and Phil is on his feet almost before he knows it. He feels like he couldn't disobey Clint right now if he wanted to, and that's kinda of scary, through the floatiness. He brings his chair along the curved edge of the table, and sits up properly beside Clint, despite a sudden and desperate longing to touch him. He feels like he should be scared, but he kind of can't be. He lets Clint guide him to lean on his shoulder a little, and when he starts to feed him little morsels from his own plate, it takes at least a full minute to register as strange. Opening up for Clint, being touched with firm, gentle hands and softly praised feels right. He shudders when Clint pauses to just trace his parted lips with one finger.

“Beautiful,” Clint murmurs, and Phil blushes, sitting up straight again.

“Th-thank you.”

“Ready for dessert?” Clint asks, and Phil squirms.

“I guess, if you don't make me go all loose in front of the waiter.”

Clint chuckles. “If I was really trying to get into your head with hand-feeding, I'd have you kneel.”

“Order something that won't make a mess and I will,” Phil says, shocked at his own daring and pleased to see Clint blush for a change.

“You're on,” he says, and when their waiter returns, he orders strawberry mousse and two spoons. “You don't have to, you know,” he says when they're alone again, and Phil shakes his head. He feels almost drunk, but he has only had a glass and a half of wine.

“I never back down from a dare. Well. Unless it's _really_ stupid.”

Clint smiles at him. “I bet.”

It seems to take forever for the mousse to arrive, but when it does and they're alone again, Phil takes a deep breath, and pushes his chair out of the way, kneeling beside Clint. His knees aren't what they once were, but it's not nearly as uncomfortable as it could be. This time he falls into some kind of daze as Clint tenderly feeds him the rich, berry cream. He carefully licks and sucks each soft pink bite off of the offered spoon, and Clint tells him what a good boy he is and what a beautiful mouth he has.

By the time they're finished with dessert, Phil feels so lost that he finds himself scrambling up and making excuses about needing to make an early night of it. He assures Clint again and again that he's all right, but as he drives off, he knows that what he's really doing is running away.


	17. Galas and Wet Dreams

By the time Phil gets home, Clint has called him twice and there are three new text messages. He feels like an asshole for making him worry, and like an idiot for panicking. Clint wouldn't make him do anything, and even if Phil had really lost his head, Clint wouldn't have _let_ him do anything they hadn't talked about first. He takes a deep breath, dishes up some chocolate ice cream, and checks the texts.

 _phil_ the first one says, _i kno you need to drive home but CALL ME_

 _starting to freak out a little ngl_ the second one says, and Phil is on the verge of crying into his ice cream by the time he reads the third one, which just says, _please please please call, im worried_

Clint picks up pretty much instantly, of course, and that just makes Phil feel worse, as does the suppressed desperation in his voice. “Phil, are you okay?”

“Yes,” Phil says. “Yes, I'm okay, and I'm sorry for making you worry so much.”

Clint laughs, the sound wild and a little cracked. For a terrible second Phil thinks he's angry, which for some reason is the worst thing in the world, but when he speaks again he sounds like he's fighting back tears. “Don't be sorry, daddy,” he says. “I feel like an idiot for letting you drive away. I was scared you'd wreck somewhere, or that you were really miserable. You aren't really miserable, right?” He sounds so anxious that Phil wants more than anything to hug him.

“I'm not. I... I feel weird, and kind of lonely and like I shouldn't have left, but I'm okay. The car and I are in one piece, and I have chocolate ice cream.”

Clint laughs, sounding a little better. “I do believe in its restorative powers.” He sighs. “God, Phil, I'm so sorry.”

“You didn't make me do anything, Clint. I should have told you I felt... strange.”

“I could see it,” Clint says, “you've gotten like that before, and I should have thought more about the effects of being so public.”

“And I should have known that I could trust you to take care of me,” Phil says. “It's all right.”

“Do you actually have a thing tomorrow?”

“I do, even if I could've stayed out longer. I'm sure we can make it up to ourselves later.”

Clint chuckles. “Probably.” They talk a while longer, and Clint's tender command to get some sleep and call him tomorrow is an easy one to follow. Phil starts to feel a little weepy when he curls up in his empty bed, but breathing exercises and hugging a pillow are soothing enough for him to lull himself down to sleep, where he slides into the kind of sex dream he only has about once every five years or so. There are milder ones, and a lot about women even though he's admitted the whole gay thing to himself, but Phil tends to wake up before the good part, or the whole dream slides into something utterly respectable and just as bizarre, like driving a fiery succubus to a job interview while trying not to spill his rapidly melting ice cream.

This time things stay focused. Phil is bound to a stone table, spreadeagled, naked, and gazing up at Clint, who beams down at him, a gleaming silver knife in one hand. Phil isn't afraid at all, rock hard and waiting for the touch of the blade. Clint praises his courage and his beauty, kissing him hard and slow before pulling back and smiling sweetly as he carves an abstract and serpentine design in Phil's chest, droplets of blood slowly rolling down his belly. Clint holds the red edge of the knife to his throat with one hand and grips his cock with the other, pumping it until Phil wakes up panting for breath as he comes all over his pajama bottoms as if he's fourteen again.

It's not a very promising way to start the day, scrubbing himself and wondering what in the hell is wrong with him for having a dream like that and then feeling guilty because Clint _does_ have knives in his playroom. Wondering if he wants Clint to use them for real makes him feel slightly dizzy, and altogether he is not his usual self when he picks Maria up from the airport. He is fit to drive, though, whatever Clint says. Still, it's nice to have someone worry about him.

Maria is standing on the corner by the time Phil drives up, and he grimaces, pulling up to the curb. She raises an eyebrow as she opens the passenger door to get in. “Really, Phil?”

“Sorry,” he mutters, feeling guiltier than he should.

“Yeah, I was standing there for a whole fifteen seconds! Relax, Phil.”

He chuckles, joining the flow of traffic. “I know, I know. How are you, Maria?”

“Great,” she says, without a bit of hesitation. 

He smiles. “Good.”

“Have you been sleeping well? You look tired.”

Phil stares at the road and wills himself not to blush. “Not so well last night. I'll take a nap before the gala, it'll be fine.”

She lets it go, thanking him for putting her up and telling him all about the award and how she literally drew the short straw to be the one presenting it. “You know how I am at wearing pretty dresses and going to parties,” she says, and Phil laughs.

“You do all right for yourself,” he says, and once she's settled in the spare bedroom with a bottle of water and a plate of cheese and crackers, he closes the door to his own room and calls Clint, going straight to voice mail. In less than five minutes Clint returns the call, sounding slightly echoey and very furtive.

“Hey, Phil?” he says by way of greeting, and Phil has to smile at how gentle and unsure he sounds.

“Hey,” he says. “If this is a bad time...”

“I may be hiding in the bathroom,” Clint says, “but fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.”

“I'm touched that you're going to the trouble,” Phil says, and Clint groans.

“Phil, seriously, I'm pissed I couldn't just drop everything and check on you last night, and I don't care if that sounds crazy. You were so fucking beautiful, and I feel so bad that I let you frighten yourself like that.”

“Clint, I have to assume these things will happen as we get more serious. It was mostly awkward to be in public and feeling that way. I was only afraid of doing something embarrassing or illegal, not anything I didn't want to do.”

“Fuck,” Clint mutters, “I gotta get out of here, but I'm glad you're okay.”

“I'm okay. Get back to work, slacker.”

Clint laughs, and hangs up, leaving Phil with the afternoon stretching before him. He puts together some notes, waters his low-maintenance plants, and by the time Maria emerges, it's almost time to start thinking about what to wear. It's important to coordinate, and he of course defers to the person who does not have her entire wardrobe at her disposal. It's soothing, going over his various non-clashing options with her. He gets to hear all about her job, and doesn't have to tell her anything about Clint. Phil has firmly reminded himself not to be ashamed of being with a man many times, but there's nothing to be done about the age gap or his own embarrassing innocence. Not that he's ever going to tell his family about a playroom with knives and canes, but he'd prefer to let things settle a little more before he introduces Clint to anyone. Maybe get out of the 'going into newly-discovered subspace in public' stage.

It's soothing to concentrate on clothes, and once everything is in order, Phil cooks a light dinner, since while the gala always involves food, it tends to be in tiny little rarefied portions and only served after entirely too many speeches. Sitting in the kitchen in a t-shirt and worn-out slacks, sharing a Welsh rabbit and sliced apple with his cousin, is a good way to psychologically prepare himself.

For all her talk of not wearing pretty dresses well, Maria looks beautiful in hers, and Phil makes sure to tell her so as he knots his tie, carefully selected to pick up the blue of her dress and to match the blue portions of the Captain America cuff links Phil is wearing. Maria laughs when she notices them, and gives her a sheepish grin in return.

“I like them,” he says, and she pats his shoulder.

“And they're cute. Come on, let's go be unfashionably early.”

Phil groans, but leads the way down to the car.


	18. The Gala

Every year the Xavier Foundation Gala is held in one of a shortlist of places that make the Heathman look like a hole in the ground. This year Phil pulls up to valet parking stand and hands over the keys. Last time the man had looked at his car like it might carry some kind of venereal disease, but this one is either a nicer person or just more professional. He takes the keys as if they're keys rather than fresh cat shit, and Phil makes a silent vow to tip him well unless he really screws up. He also opens Maria's door for her, another point in his favor. She takes Phil's arm as the valet drives away, shaking out the nonexistent wrinkles in her skirt.

"Ready?" she murmurs, and Phil smiles.

"Well, we didn't spend six hours getting ready, but our outfits will read in black and white..."

"I can't believe you read Party Monster and didn't realize you were gay," Maria tells him, and he laughs, letting her tow him along the honest-to-God red carpet. There are even photographers, but of course they don't care about people like Phil and Maria, and for that he is profoundly grateful. There's a very polite bouncer, of course, and after he examines Phil's press pass and Maria's actual invitation, they're free to make their way into a ballroom that feels like a jewel box, all red and gold and ludicrously opulent.

"Christ," Maria mutters, "I get enough of this with Stark."

Phil laughs. "Pepper can only influence him so far, you know."

"I suppose," she says, and snags two glasses of champagne from a passing tray. "I'll be able to keep you company for the first round of hors d'oeuvres, and then I've got to go figure out when I go on and what to say."

"Just talk about the recipient being wonderful and deserving," Phil says. "Everyone likes that, and you don't have to go on for long."

"True," she says, and drains her glass. "God forbid I be one of those people who makes a ten minute speech just to hand over a plaque."

Phil assures her again that she won't, and helps her to eat caviar without getting it all over herself. He wonders again if Clint really does put the stuff on hotdogs, and smiles. Maria gives him a very suspicious look, but he manages to distract her with slices of crystallized starfruit and the remarkably tasteless ice sculpture beside them. It's of a swan, and looks either deranged or extremely drunk, it's hard to say. The debate over whether it's all the sculptor's fault or if some of the problem is melt consumes the rest of Maria's free time, and Phil is quite calm as he leads her back to the dais. He knows a few people there, including Charles Xavier himself, who smiles sweetly up from his wheelchair. Phil can't help frowning a little, because he had heard that Charles was walking much better these days, and this looks like a setback.

Charles just laughs, as if he's reading Phil's mind. "I've been overdoing it lately, that's all."

"I see. I was afraid you had really hurt yourself."

He laughs. "Not with Good Nurse Lensherr around. Erik, love, come and be introduced." The man who emerges out of the background to shake Phil's hand looks like an exceptionally beautiful contract killer, and Phil isn't sure if the frisson as that strong hand clasps his is more about attraction or terror. "Erik Lensherr, Phil Coulson," Charles says, beaming at them. "Phil is here to write it up for the Shield, and Erik is my very unwilling plus-one."

"Not much for this kind of thing?" Phil asks him as he releases his hand.

"Not in general, no," he says, and looks over at Charles with incredible tenderness. It softens his whole face, and the effect is gorgeous. Hopefully ogling other men goes under the same rule as ogling other women, which is to be discreet and never admit to it unless she does first. After a few more pleasantries, Phil excuses himself to prowl around the room and find out who showed up this year and who didn't, the reasons for any changes from usual patterns, and who is positive of which award. Most of the time the major ones can be called months in advance, but there is always some mystery, and of course a lot of very uncharitable feeling. Phil takes a few quiet notes in a little alcove, and then finds a seat in front of the dais before the ceremony begins.

Since it's his party, of course Charles Xavier has to open things up. The podium is standing height, and Phil isn't surprised to see Charles approach it on two canes. He props them against the side and rests a little of his weight on the podium, smiling out at his audience.

The speech Charles gives is essentially the same every year. It's always about the importance of charity, and how proud he is of everyone's work for their community. This year's is nothing special, but it's a very solid performance and deserves the polite applause it gets.

There are more than a dozen awards being given at this thing, and as it drags on Phil gains a new appreciation for how desperately his coworkers avoid it. He actually texts Bobbi during one particularly long and pompous speech. Usually he's far too polite to do such a thing, but he's nearing the end of his patience. At least Maria comes on after the windbag, which is a profound relief. She's presenting the Vision award for the best use of the Maria Stark Foundation's tech grants. Despite all her misgivings, she does it gracefully, and Phil can't help beaming like somebody's mother. The recipient is a charming young man named Miles Morales, and he thanks her in a sweet, shy way that's refreshingly sincere. There's a suggestion of skittering as he makes his quick way off the stage, but he manages some dignity. Maria makes her escape right after him, and Phil waves her over to the empty seat beside him. She smiles as she settles into it, and he gives her a thumbs-up.

The woman who succeeds Maria at the podium is Emma Frost, a tall, elegant blonde in glacial white. She always insists that she hasn't had any work done, and Phil is inclined to believe her. She starts to explain the criteria for the Best Children's Charity, and Phil tunes out for a while, because even the most succinct person has to spout a bit about children being the future, and that always eats time. And then she mentions Camp Nowhere, and Phil does his best not to jump out of his skin because that's the summer camp Clint runs.

A moment later Clint steps up to join her. He's in an actual tuxedo and it's cut perfectly, even if it's a strange sort of midnight purple. He's still wearing boots, but a pair that are less stompy and more acceptable for evening wear. He thanks Emma Frost as quickly as he can without being ungracious, flashes a bright smile at the whole room, and makes his escape. Everything about him is adorable, and Phil feels like an idiot and can hardly even mind. Phil isn't sure Clint even knows he's here until he claims the nearest empty seat to Phil and makes a point of catching his gaze and holding it for a long moment. Phil hopes he's not blushing, and supposes that he must not be, because Maria doesn't seem to notice a thing.

The rest of the ceremony feels like an eternity, but finally everyone is free to mingle and inhale more champagne. As the crowd thins out, Clint makes his way over to Phil, and smiles.

"So this is the thing you had to go to."

"I drew the short straw this year," Phil agrees, and Clint laughs.

"I always feel stupid when I win this, because I never know what to do with the plaque."

"I can't believe I didn't see you come in."

"I arrived unfashionably late and had to come in through the kitchen. I like that better, anyway."

"You would. This is my cousin, Maria Hill. Maria, Clint Barton." It's pretty weird to be introducing his first male lover to his baby cousin, to say nothing of the kink factor, but if he has his way she'll never know about that, and he needs to get better at being out. At least the two of them can talk shop together, since he also has to worry about security. Phil offers up a mental prayer of gratitude. He blushes a little when Clint takes his hand, but only a little, and they're both nice enough to say nothing about it.


	19. Afterparty

Phil of course cannot leave early the way he wants to, because he has reporting to do. Maria doesn't want to be trapped here any longer, and Phil is just pulling out his phone to call her a cab when Clint offers to drive him home, with a look that makes Phil a little weak in the knees.

"Okay," Phil says softly, squeezing his hand, "but I have to make a few more rounds, first."

"That's cool," Clint assures him, and then lets go of his hand so he can give Maria his keys and then start working the room again. He has to take note of who's surprised to win or to lose, and who's pretending to be but isn't, and all the rest of it. By the time he can finally leave, he is determined to avoid this gig for at least another three years. It takes him a moment to find Clint, but he's waiting near the main entrance. He hands Phil a glass of champagne without a word, and smiles as he drains it.

"Better?"

"A lot better, thanks," Phil says.

"So am I really driving you home?" Clint asks, and Phil shivers.

"Where are you staying?"

"The Heathman again," Clint says, "I like it there."

Phil calls Maria to let her know about his changed plans, trying not to blush and failing. His face only gets hotter as Clint smiles at him, full of fondness and hunger. Phil shivers a little as he hangs up, and takes Clint's hand again, squeezing it. Clint squeezes back, and leads him outside. It only takes a minute for the valet to bring his car around, and then Phil is climbing into the passenger seat, heart pounding.

"Let me know if you're getting nervous again," Clint says, staring out at the road.

"I am right now," Phil says, "but in a good way." He squirms a little in his seat, feeling himself flush more than ever. "I... I got so worried because we were in public. This will be different."

This time Clint does risk a sidelong glance at him, eyes full of need. "Good."

Phil reaches across the gearshift and takes his hand, rubbing a circle on the back of it with his thumb. "I trust you to take care of me," he says, and Clint shivers.

It isn't a very long drive, and all too soon Phil is checking into a room with another man and a double bed in front of God and everybody. Of course, everyone is perfectly professional, and it makes Phil feel like an idiot for a moment before he reminds himself, as he always does, that he's a late bloomer is and doomed to a certain amount of awkwardness. Clint just takes his hand and laces their fingers together as they step into the elevator. He can't help but remember their first kiss, and shivers a little.

"All right?" Clint asks, speaking very softly.

"Y-yeah," Phil whispers, "I am. It's just... it's just a lot."

"It is," Clint says, and leads the way out as the elevator stops. Phil follows him to his room, which is just as palatial as the last one. Clint takes Phil's jacket and hangs it up with his own, telling Phil to make himself comfortable. Thankfully, there's a loveseat by the window that prevents the awkward dorm room ambiance caused by having to sit on the bed. Phil sinks into it in real gratitude, and smiles up at Clint when he returns with two glasses of water.

"This seat taken?" he asks, and Phil laughs, taking his glass.

"Reserved for you," he says, and Clint smiles, settling in beside him. For a while they just sip their water in silence, and Phil is grateful for it, glad to have some time to collect himself. When Clint puts his arm around Phil's shoulders, Phil leans on him and sighs softly.

"Thanks for this," he says.

"Any time, Phil," Clint says, and kisses the top of his head. He really is incredibly patient, and Phil snorts quietly as the memories of his various attempted male dates, none of which he counts because all of them ended early, usually due to a lack of patience. No matter how clearly Phil had spelled out a need to go slowly on various dating sites and apps. he had kept meeting up with guys who didn't believe he was serious. In answer to Clint's enquring little noise, Phil explains.

Clint sighs. "Morons, all of them. But hey, it all works out for me."

"I guess it does," Phil says, smiling.

"God, you're so fucking adorable," Clint breathes, and kisses the corner of Phil's eye, right where his crowsfeet get worse every year. "Seriously, I can't get over it," he adds, taking Phil's empty glass from his hand and setting both of them on the end table.

"Good," Phil says, and kisses him on the mouth. Clint sighs into it and pulls him closer. Phil isn't really sure whose idea it is for him to climb into Clint's lap, but it happens. He's starting to get used to being held this way, but remains a little embarrassed by how much he likes it. He hides his face in Clint's neck for a long moment, just hanging on and breathing in his scent, feeling the beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his breath.

"You're so shy, daddy," Clint murmurs, rubbing his back. "It's adorable."

"Not saying I don't like it," Phil mutters, "but is it just daddy issues, or what?"

"A bit of that, but it also just seems a little silly to call you baby."

"I suppose it doesn't befit my age and gravity," Phil says, kissing the side of Clint's neck, just above the collar.

"Ugh, I can't believe I'm still wearing all this. That is not a demand for either of us to get naked," he adds, "but I gotta lose this tie before I lose my goddamn mind."

"Here," Phil says, and sits up enough to undo the tie, carefully draping it over the arm of the couch and opening the first three buttons of Clint's shirt. Clint sighs and melts into the seat a little, making Phil chuckle. "Better?"

"So much better," Clint drawls, and unbuttons his vest, sliding out of it and letting Phil drape it over the tie before pulling him close again. Phil absently undoes another of Clint's shirt buttons, sliding his hand into the gap and over Clint's smooth chest. For all the iconoclasm of nearly-black purple instead of plain black, the shirt is still white pique, and Phil chuckles.

"Glad you're not a heathen after all," he says in response to Clint's curious look. "The pique," he clarifies, and Clint laughs.

"So hidebound," he says fondly, and kisses the top of Phil's head.

"I don't know," Phil says, "I don't think I've been reluctant to try new things lately."

"True. Have you thought much more about your limits, lately? Things that don't sound fun at all, or sound a little scary?" Phil can't help a little whine of embarrassment as he remembers his dream, pressing his face into the crook of Clint's neck. "What is it?" Clint murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on Phil's back.

"I... I had a wet dream about something I thought was a hard limit, so I'm not sure what to say."

"Tell me about your dream," Clint says, and it feels more like a command than a request. Phil shivers as he realizes how little he minds.

"I dreamed that you were cutting me," he says, almost hoping that he's too muffled for Clint to understand him. "I was on a stone table, and you were making this design on my chest."

"Shit," Clint gasps, shivering, and Phil smiles to feel him getting hard beneath him.

"Y-yeah. You were happy that I was enjoying it. It was a serene sort of dream, all languorous and slow. I have no idea what that kind of cutting is like in real life, but in the dream it felt so good..." Clint grinds up against him a little, as if he can't help it, and Phil chuckles, lightly biting his neck. "You like that?"

"Fffuck, yes," Clint breathes, trembling a little. Phil straddles Clint's lap and tips his chin up with one hand, leaning down to kiss him again, much hotter and wetter. He takes his time over this one, and Clint moans into his mouth, clutching at his shirt and probably leaving horrible wrinkles that Phil can't care about now. "Still no demands," Clint murmurs against Phil's lips, "but I very politely request that you get naked right goddamn now." 

Phil shivers, and straightens up to carefully unfasten his cufflinks. Clint laughs when he realizes what they are, but not unkindly. "Jesus, every time I think you can't get any cuter..."

Phil just laughs, setting them next to the water glasses and leaning forward again so that Clint can unknot his tie.


	20. Afterparty II

Clint works slowly, removing every bit of Phil's clothing and laying it aside with real care. At first Phil tries to help, but Clint just grins and shakes his head. "Oh no, daddy, this is all mine," he says, and Phil just relaxes back onto the cushions, closing his eyes and barely remembering to breathe. 

The whole time Clint is stripping him, he's murmuring to himself about whatever he discovers. He talks about the grey in Phil's chest hair and the softness at his belly that he can't get rid of anymore like they're both good things. Better than good, delightful. He covers Phil with kisses, and then slides off the loveseat to kneel on the floor, carefully pulling off his sock and then letting out a startled and happy laugh. For a moment Phil has no idea what's so funny, and then remembers his pedicure and laughs.

"I went with a friend," he says, wiggling his toes. "Bobbi, the girl who was supposed to interview you."

"I have never been so glad someone called out sick in my life," Clint says, and kisses the top of Phil's foot before moving to the other one, tugging off the sock and rolling it up with its mate. "Did you pick the color? It's pretty."

Phil can feel himself blushing, and squirms a little. "I did." He feels like he should say something else, but then Clint is pushing his knees apart and he forgets how to talk. Clint sighs, nuzzling Phil's belly again and pulling back enough to unbutton Phil's pants, unzipping the fly and pulling them down. Phil does what he can to help, and soon he's down to his boxer-briefs.

"Charcoal grey, huh?" Clint asks, pulling them down.

"They m-match the suit," Phil breathes, "so it's less noticeable if you tear your pants."

"Prepared for anything, I swear," Clint says, setting Phil's underwear aside. "Gorgeous as you look on that upholstery, I think it's half-past time to take this to bed."

"People do say that blue brings out my eyes," Phil says, getting to his feet. 

He's only a little shaky, and feels only a little silly to be completely naked when Clint is almost completely not. Clint puts a protective arm around him, like he thinks he might fall over, and guides him over to the bed, turning the covers down for him. Phil crawls in and stretches out on his back, unsure what to do and pleased to see that it's good enough for Clint, who joins him a moment later. The fabric of his clothing is cool and smooth against Phil's skin, and sighs, luxuriating in it and craning his neck to kiss Clint again.

"Fucking beautiful," Clint whispers against Phil's lips, and then slides his callused hands down Phil's arms to his wrists. He pins them to the mattress beside Phil's head, and Phil lets out a barely-audible whimper, pressing up into Clint's grip just to feel his strength. "God, I wish we had a good set of cuffs," he says, pausing to kiss Phil's forehead before looking into his eyes again, "but I bet I can trust you to stay where I put you."

"Yes, sir," Phil breathes, and Clint whines softly before grinning again.

"Besides, bringing lube and condoms seemed presumptuous enough. You want me inside you, daddy?"

"Yes, sir," Phil whispers again, moaning into Clint's mouth as he kisses him again, tongue sliding along his own. 

He can't help a small noise of disappointment when Clint pulls away, but Clint just chuckles and slowly strips, with a few truly professional touches. He takes off the undershirt with a bit of hesitation, and Phil's heart melts to think that Clint really does trust him not to start grabbing at places he'd rather no one touched. He digs the supplies out of his bag and comes back, stretching out beside Phil and making sure he gets a very good view of him lubricating his fingers. Phil trembles, and then jumps when those slick fingertips rub a hard circle on one nipple rather than anywhere lower. His mouth drops open in a soundless moan, and he arches his back to press into the touch.

"Like that?" Clint asks, switching sides.

"Y-yes, sir!" Phil's own voice sounds strange to him, a high, helpless, gasping thing, and Clint moans quietly.

"Jesus, Phil," he mutters, biting his neck and pinching both nipples, "what am I going to do with you?"

"A-anything, sir!"

Clint groans, resting his forehead on Phil's breastbone for a long moment. "Fuck," he whispers at last, and it sounds like a prayer. He kisses Phil roughly and pinches his nipples so hard that it hurts, but it's not the kind that Phil wants to stop. He moans and pushes up against Clint's hands again. "We so need cuffs," Clint murmurs, "and clamps."

"Maybe so, sir," Phil breathes, squirming when Clint finally releases his grip. 

There's a sweet, burning ache in his nipples now, and he moans when Clint puts a little more lube on each one, soothing them before reaching down to just rub slick fingertips over his hole. He completely ignores Phil's cock, even when it makes incidental contact with his forearm. Phil bites his lip and then lets it go to pant softly, trying to let Clint in. One finger slides easily up to the palm, and Phil moans, spreading his legs and planting his feet on the mattress.

"Good boy," Clint murmurs, and Phil moans in response. He can feel himself blushing bright red, and turns his head to hide his face in his own upper arm. Clint chuckles. "None of that, sweetheart," he says, and uses his free hand to gently turn Phil to face him again as he pulls out and then pushes back in with two fingers. Phil groans quietly and grinds down on Clint's fingers, whimpering as he adds the third, watching Phil's face like there is nothing more important in the world.

"Please, sir," Phil whispers, "please more, please please please..."

Clint groans and kisses him. "How could I possibly refuse?" he murmurs, and kisses Phil again before sitting up to roll one of the condoms on. Phil is desperate to help him with that, but he stays right where he is, aching cock resting on his belly. Clint slathers his cock in lube, and then settles himself between Phil's legs. He works himself into Phil very gently, going still when he tightens up, and pressing forward when he relaxes. Phil does his bet to help, but is mostly as the mercy of his own body, which fortunately seems to want Clint almost as much as he does. 

Clint shudders and curses breathlessly as he sinks into Phil, getting those capable hands on his ass to haul his hips up for a better angle, pressing as deep as he can. Just as Phil is getting desperate to hold Clint, he pins Phil's wrists in place again, fucking him faster and deeper with every stroke. Phil is past doing anything but gasping out disjointed encouragement, wanting Clint to know that he loves it, that he can take it and that if he's sore tomorrow he'll treasure it. He wraps his legs around Clint as best he can, whimpering as his cock jumps with every thrusts.

"Please sir," he gasps, "please, please can I hold you?" He's too far gone even to remember about the scars, and Clint must realize that, because he lets Phil throw his arms around his shoulders and cling. He fucks Phil for another tiny eternity, and then finally reaches down to grip his cock. Within a minute Phil is coming, his entire body bucking and shaking under Clint, who slurs something into his ear about how hot and how tight he is, and that he's a good boy. He goes silent at last, buried as deep into Phil as he can get, shaking all over. Phil holds him tightly, and at last he sighs and relaxes onto Phil, limp and helpless and beautiful. 

That only lasts a moment, though, before he's up again, gently kissing Phil and then carefully pulling out. He knots the condom and throws it away properly, which Phil appreciates. He gets a little lonely as Clint goes to wash his hands, and it makes him feel like an idiot. But Clint is back within five minutes, with wet wipes, a towel, and a lot of murmured encouragement for his good boy. Phil just relaxes and allows himself to be taken care of. Once he's clean and dry, Clint wraps around him in a tight, possessive hug, and Phil makes a tiny noise of contentment in his throat, snuggling into Clint's chest as he dozes off.


	21. Afterparty III

Phil blinks awake unsure of where he is or what time it is, but none of that matters because he's safe in Clint's arms. He can't even feel stupid about it, just happy and warm and a tiny bit needy. He nuzzles in against Clint's chest, feeling as well as hearing it when he laughs. It's not a mean sound at all, soft and full of affection, and Phil sighs, trying to press even closer.

"You okay, daddy?" Clint asks, rubbing his back. "Nice and warm?" Phil makes an affirmative noise, and Clint laughs again. "Come on, honey, use your words."

"Nice 'n' warm," Phil mutters, and then shivers happily as Clint tells him what a good boy he is. Phil dozes for a while, and wakes up when Clint props him up one one arm, the other hand offering him a glass of water. Phil doesn't think to take it in his own hand, just puts his lips to the rim.

"Good boy," Clint purrs, and Phil feels warm all over. He lets Clint feed him the water slowly, and drinks the whole cup. Clint sets it aside, praising Phil again and kissing his cheek and as he cuddles close.

"What time is it?" Phil mumbles at last, and Clint chuckles.

"Not even midnight, sweetheart," he says, and kisses the spot where Phil's hairline used to be. 

Phil blushes and squirms, but the embarrassment isn't sharp at all. Nothing is sharp, everything is just warm and sweet and slow. He makes a low, happy noise in his chest, and ruts against Clint's hip a little, cock slowly filling again. Clint shivers and presses his thigh to the underside of Phil's cock, providing resistance and friction.

"You feel all right, daddy?" he murmurs, and Phil nods. "Not nervous?"

"That was just 'cause we were in public," Phil says. "Here I know you can take care of me."

Clint shivers, and covers Phil's face in kisses, whispering that he's glad Phil knows he can trust him. Phil moans quietly, grinding a little harder on Clint's thigh, and Clint shudders all over. "Fffuck, Phil... I, uh, I get it if you don't want to do anything else rough right now, but..."

"What do you want to do to me?" Phil murmurs into Clint's ear, and he moans, biting onto Phil's neck so hard that he gasps. It hurts, but in a way that makes him squirm and pant, going from barely hard to about halfway.

"I want to mark you up, daddy," Clint growls, "maybe take my belt to you."

The idea is somewhere between scary and hot, but Phil thinks of the smell of leather and of the way he feels when he's wearing Clint's marks. These would be bigger, and last longer. They would also hurt more, but right now that doesn't sound like a bad thing. "Green," Phil whispers, "but slowly."

"Always start slow," Clint says, and kisses Phil before pulling away and firmly rolling him onto his belly. Phil trembles and lets him. When Clint guides him onto all fours, he goes, and then stays poised there, taking slow, deep breaths while he waits for Clint to get his belt. It only takes a few seconds, but it feels like forever until Clint's weight is dipping the mattress again. Clint is completely naked now, and he chuckles when he catches Phil noticing.

"Because I can trust you," he says softly, and Phil reels a little with it, beginning to realize some part of how intoxicating his own trust must be for Clint. 

He knots his hands in the sheets and waits, shivering as Clint touches cool leather to the nape of his neck. He's holding the belt in a loop, and drags the soft leather all the way down Phil's spine. It's a delicate touch, and makes him shiver and relax a little more. Clint purrs and roughly slides both hands up Phil's back, sitting back to slap his ass hard, making him jump and whimper. He can't help arching his back to offer himself up to the second strike, and Clint's purred praise is enough to make him moan.

"Ready to try the belt?" Clint asks, running his hands up Phil's back again and then clawing his way back down.

"Yes," Phil gasps, and then Clint is pressing a kiss to Phil's upper back between the spine and the shoulder blade, and then he's gone for a long, tense moment.

"Ready?" Clint asks again.

"Green, sir!" Phil gasps, and then there's a swish and the loud crack of the leather against his skin, right where Clint's lips just were. It hurts so badly that Phil can't breathe at first, and then he lets everything out in a soundless moan, shaking and sinking down onto his elbows, head hanging.

"Color?"

"Ohh..." Phil wants to obey, but the sweet fire spreading over his skin is one of the most distracting things he has ever felt. His toes curl and his thighs tremble, feeling weak and loose. He's not sure if he wants to be hit again or if he wants Clint inside him, and he struggles to do anything but moan.

"I need you to give me a color, daddy," Clint says, not sounding worried yet, just very firm. 

It makes Phil bite his lip and whimper, but at last he manages to speak again. "Green... oh fuck..."

Behind him, Clint chuckles. He leans down and kisses the opposite side of Phil's spine, in the same spot, and then sits up again. Phil makes a helpless little noise before Clint even starts his swing, and when the belt hits him this time he cries out. He's so hard now that it aches, and he can feel his pulse in his cock.

"Please sir, please, please more, please more," Phil gasps, and then wails as Clint obliges him. 

There's a rhythm to it, Clint painting Phil's back in hard, biting strikes, working outward from the center and carefully avoiding bony areas. From the third onward they go straight to Phil's cock, and he doesn't have names for the noises that tumble out of his mouth in response. Clint checks in twice, and each time Phil gives him the green light as soon as he can find words again. All the while he struggles to stay up on his elbows and knees, not to just to collapse completely.

"Trying so hard," Clint murmurs in the quiet after the last strike, "so hard to be good for me." He ranges over Phil and kisses the back of his neck. "Doing such a good job, daddy."

"Thank you, sir," Phil breathes, squirming.

Clint puts a hand on his shoulder then and pushes him down to the mattress. It's a small action, but right now it makes Phil's whole body go loose and weak. He moans and his legs spread of their own volition. He spares half a thought for what he must look like right now, but the embarrassment doesn't do anything to get in the way of his arousal. At the touch of Clint's slick fingertips on his hole, Phil moans and struggles to open up even more for them. The first two slide in together, stretching Phil and making him moan and push back as Clint fucks him on them for a moment before adding a third. Phil cries out and pushes back onto his hand, fighting to take more.

"Gonna fuck you now, daddy," Clint growls, "give me a color."

"Green, _please!_ " Phil sobs and then Clint's fingers are sliding out. That's horrible for a moment but then's he's back, the tip of his condom-wrapped cock sliding along Phil's open hole once and then again before pushing into it, plunging into Phil in one smooth, controlled thrust that makes him feel open and used and like he could come at any second. He cries out and clutches at the pillow, whimpering that he's going to come, that he can't hold back and that he needs to know it's all right. That's the most important thing in the world right now, and Phil moans with relief when Clint starts nibbling his ear and encouraging him to go ahead.

"I want to feel you come," he purrs, speeding up a little. "You're already so tight, daddy, so fucking tight..." he loses his thread for a moment here, just grinding deeper and deeper as Phil sobs and clenches on him. "Yeah, that's right," Clint growls, "come on me, daddy, let me feel it." He reaches around and barely has to touch Phil's cock before Phil is wailing, coming so hard that his vision greys out.


End file.
